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' And ihe blackbirds helped us with the story, 
for they knew it well."' — Page 225. 



THE 



Poetical Works 



JEAISr INGELOW. 



INCLUDING 



E\jt ^tJ^ptcrti iLatiu anti ©ti}cr ^otm^. 



ILLUSTRATED. 




TROY, N.Y.: 
NIMS & KNIGHT. 



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•A I .... 



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Co f"}' right, 

V>\ Thomas Y. Ckowell it Co. 

1SS7. 



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EUctrotyped by J. S. CMshing if Co., PostoH. 



Press-tvork- by Bef~ifii:k &> Sntitfi, Boston. 



FIX 



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'A 



DEDICA TION. 



TO 



GEORGE K. INGELOW, 

TOUK LOVING SISTER 

OFFERS YOU THESE POEMS, PARTLY AS 

ATT EXPRESSION OF HER AFFECTION, PAKTLV FOR THE 

PLEASURE OF CONNECTING HER EFFORT 

WITH YOUR NAME. 



Kensington, June, I860. 



3JJ 






CONTENTS 



POEMS. PAQE. 

Divided 9 

Honors. — Parti 13 

Honors. — Part H 2I 

Requiescat in Pace . 31 

Supper at the Mill 38 

Scholar and Carpenter 47 

The Stab's Monument ' 58 

A Dead Year 81 

Reflections written fob the Portfolio Society .85 

The Letter L 88 

The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire (1571) Ill 

Afternoon at a Parsonage 116 

Songs of Seven : 

Seven times One. — Exultation . 126 

Seven times Two. — Romance 127 

Seven times Three. — Love 128 

Seven times Four. — Maternity 129 

Seven times Five. — Widowhood 130 

Seven times Six. — Gi\ing in Marriage 131 

Seven times Seven. — Longing for Home 132 

A Cottage in a Chine I34 

Persephone 138 

A Sea Song 141 

Brothers, and a Sermon 142 

A Wedding Song 165 

The Four Bridges 166 

A Mother showing the Portrait of her Child 188 

Strife and Peace I93 

A STORY OF DOOM, AND OTHER POEMS. 

The Dreams that came True I99 

Songs on the Voices of Birds: 

Introduction. — Child and Boatman 213 

The Nightingale heard by the Unsatisfied Heart 215 

Sand Martins 216 



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PAGE 

Poet in his Youth, and the Cuckoo Bird 218 

A Raven in a White Chine 223 

The Warbling of Blackbirds 225 

Sea-Mews in Winter Time 226 

Laurance 227 

Songs of the Night Watches : 

Introductory. — Apprenticed 258 

TheFirstAVatch.— Tired 259 

The Middle Watch 265 

The Morning Watch 268 

Concluding Song of Dawn 270 

A Story of Doom 271 

CONTBAbTED SONGS : 

Sailing beyond Seas 348 

Remonstrance 349 

Song for the Night of Christ's Resurrection 350 

Song of Margaret 356 

Song of the Going Away 357 

A Lily and a Lute 358 

Gladys and her Island 366 

Songs with Preludes : 

Wedlock 391 

Regret 394 

Lamentation • 395 

Dominwu 397 

Friendship 400 

Winstanley • 402 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN, AND POEMS OF LOVE 
AND CHILDHOOD. 

The Monitions of the Unseen 415 

A Birthday Walk • ... 433 

Not in Vain I Waited 435 

A Gleaning Song 436 

With a Diamond 437 

Fancy 437 

Compensation 438 

Looking Down 438 

Married Lovers • 439 




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CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

A Winter Song 441 

Binding Sheaves 442 

Work 443 

"Wishing 443 

To 444 

On the Borders of Cannock Chase 444 

The Mariner's Cave 445 

A Reverie 453 

Dkfton Wood 456 

The Snowdrop Monument (in Lichfield Cathedral) .... 457 

An Ancient Chess King 459 

Comfort in the Night 460 

Though all Great Deeds 460 

The Long White Seam 461 

An Old Wipe's Song 462 

Cold and Quiet 463 

A Sno-w Mountain 464 

Sleep 465 

Promising . 465 

Love . 466 

Poems Written on the Deaths of three Children : 

Henry, aged eight years 467 

Samuel, aged nine years 471 

Katie, aged five years 474 

The Two Margarets : 

I. Margaret by the Mene Side 477 

II. Margaret in the Xebec 488 

The Shepherd Lady 506 

Above the Clouds 507 

Love's Thread of Gold 508 

Failure 508 

One Morning, Oh ! so Early 509 

The Days Without Alloy 510 

The Leaves of Lign Aloes 511 

On the Rocks by Aberdeen 511 

Feathers and Moss 612 

Sweet is Childhood 512 

The Gypsy's Selling Song 513 

My Fair Lady 513 

Sleep and Time 514 

Master, quoth the Auld Hound 514 

Like a Laverock in the Lift 515 



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CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

At One Again ^1^ 

I. Noonday ^ . al5 

n. Sunset 51<j 

lU. Tho nream 517 

IV. TheWakius; 518 

V. A Song 518 

Vr. Lovers • 519 

VII. Fathers 520 

Notes. ... o . - o <,.......■.. • 521 




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POEMS 



DIVIDED. 



An empt}' sky, a world of lieather, 
Puri)le of foxglove, yellow of broom ; 

We two among them wading together, 
Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover. 
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, 

Crowds of larks at their matins hang over 
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 

'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver. 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 

We two walk till the purple dieth 

And short dry grass under foot is brown, 

But one little streak at a distance lietli 
Green like a ribl)on to prank the down. 

II. 

Over the grass we stopped unto it. 

And God He knoweth how blithe we were ! 

Never a voice to bid us eschew it : 

Hey the green ril)bon that showed so fair ! 



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DIVIDED. 



Hey the greeu ribbou ! we kueeled beside it, 
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen ; 

Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
A tiny bright beck tliat trickled between. 

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, 
Light was our talk as of faery bells — 

Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us 
Down in their fortunate parallels. 

Hand in hand, while tlie sun peered over. 

We lapped the grass on that youngling spring : 

Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover. 
And said, " Let us follow it westering." 

III. 

A dapple sky, a world of meadows. 
Circling above us the black rooks fly 

Forward, backward ; lo, their dark shadows 
Flit on the blossoming tapestry — 

Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth 

As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back ; 

And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth 

His flattering smile on her wayward track. 

Sing on ! we sing in the glorious weather 
Till one steps over the tiny strand, 

So narrow, in sooth, that still together 
On either brink we go hand in hand. 

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. 

On either margin, our songs all done, 
"Vye move apart, while she singeth ever, 

Taking the course of the stooping sun. 

He prays, " Come over " — I may not follow ; 
I cry, " Return " — but he cannot come : 




" Ilaiiii in iiaiid, while the sliii peered over, 
We lapped the grass on that gurgling spring." — Page lo. 




DIVIDED. 



II 



We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow ; 
Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. 



A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, 

A little talking of outward things : 
The careless beck is a merry dancer. 

Keeping sweet time to tlie air she sings. 

A little pain when the beck grows wider ; 

" Cross to me now — for her wavelets swell : " 
" I ma}' not cross " — and the voice beside her 

Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 

No backward path ; ah ! no retiii'iiing; 

No second crossing that ripple's flow : 
" Come to me now, for the west is burning ; 

Come ere it darkens ; " — " Ah, no ! ali, no ! " 

Then cries of pain, and arms outreacliing — 
The beck grows wider and swift and deep : 

Passionate words as of one beseeching — 

The loud beck drowns them ; we walk, and weep. 



A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 
A tired queen with her state oppressed, 

Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping, 
Lies she soft on the waves at I'cst. 

The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 

Her earth will weep her some dewy tears ; 
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness. 

And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 



'W 




DIVIDED. 



AVe two walk ou in our grassy places 
On either marge of the moonlit flood, 

\i\ih the moon's own sadness in our faces, 
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. 



A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 

A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; 
A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, 

A cloud to the eastward suow}' as curds. 

Bare glassy- slopes, where kids are tethered ; 

Round valleys like nests all fern^'-lined ; 
Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, 

Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 

A rose- flush tender, a thrill, a quiver. 

When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide ; 

A flashing edge for the milk-white river. 
The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 

Broad and white, and polished as silver, 
On she goes under fruit-laden trees ; 

Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, 
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. 

Glitters the dew and shines the river. 
Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 

But two are walking apart forever. 

And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 



A braver swell, a swifter sliding ; 

The river hasteth, her banks recede : 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 

Bear down the lilv and drown the reed. 



Bx 



DIVIDED. 13 

Stately prows are rising and bowing 
(Siiouts of mariners winnow the air), 

And level sands for banks endowing 

The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 

"While, O my heart ! as white sails shiver 

And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide, 

How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, 
That moving speck on the far-off side ! 

Farther, farther — I see it — know it — 

My eyes brim over, it melts away : 
Only my heart to my heart shall show it 

As I walk desolate day by day. 



And yet I know past all doubting, truly — 
And knowledge greater than grief can dim — 

I know, as he loved, he will love me dul}' — 
Yea, better — e'en better than I love him. 

And as I walk b}' the vast calm river, 

The awful river so dread to see, 
I say, ''Thy breadth and thy depth forever 

Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me." 



HONORS. — PART I. 

A Scholar is niusing on Jiis Want of Success. 

To strive — and fail. Yes, I did strive and fail, 
I set mine eyes upon a certain night 

To find a certain star — and could not hail 
With them its deep-set licjht. 



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HONORS. 



Fool that I teas ! I icill rehearse my fault : 
I, ivingless, thought myself on high to lift 

Among the winged — / set these feet that halt 
To run against the sioift. 

And yet this man., that loved me so, can lurife — 
That loves 7ne, I xvould say, cart let me see ; 

Or fain woidd have me think he counts hut light 
These Honors lost to me. 



[The Letter of his Frier^d.'] 

*' What are they ? that old house of yours which gave 
Such welcomes oft to me the suubeams fall 

Still down the squares of blue and white which pave 
Its hospitable hall. 

" A brave old house ! a garden full of bees, 
Large dropping poppies, and queen hollyhocks, 

AYith butterflies for crowns — tree peonies 
And pinks and goldilocks. 

" Go, when the shadow of your house is long 
Upon the garden — when some new-waked bird 

Pecking and fluttering, chirps a sudden song. 
And not a leaf is stirred ; 

'• But every one drops dew from either edge 

Upon its fellow, while an amber ray 
Slants up among the tree-tops like a wedge 

Of liquid gold — to play 

'' Over and under them, and so to fall 
Upon that lane of water lying below — 

That piece of sky let in, that you do call 
A pond, but which I know 




HONORS. 15 



" To be a deep and wondrous world ; for I 

Have seen the trees within it — marvellous' things 

So thick no bird betwixt their leaves could fly 
But she would smite her wings ; — 

" Go there, I say ; stand at the water's brink, 
And shoals of spotted grayling you shall see 

Basking between the shadows — look, and think 
' This beauty is for me ; 

" ' For me this freshness in the morning hours ; 

For me the water's clear tranquillity ; 
For me that soft descent of chestnut flowers ; 

The cushat's cry for me. 

" ' The lovely laughter of the wiudswayed wheat; 

The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill ; 
The sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet 

And wade and drink their fill.' 

" Then saunter down that terrace whence the sea 
All fair with wing-like sails you may discern ; 

Be glad, and say, 'This beauty is for me — 
A thing to love and learn. 

" ' For me the bounding in of tides ; for me 
The lying bare of sands when they retreat ; 

The purple flush of calms, the sparkling glee 
When waves and sunshine meet.' 

•' So, after gazing, homeward turn, and mount 
To that long chamber in the roof ; there tell 

Your heart the laid-up lore it holds to count 
And prize and ponder well. 

' ' The lookings onward of the race before 
It had a past to make it look behind ; 

Its reverent wonders, and its doubtings sore, 
Its adorations blind. 



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HONORS. 



" The thunder of its war-songs, and the glow 
Of chants to freedom by the old world sung ; 

The sweet love cadences that long ago 
Dropped from the old world tongue. 

" And then this new- world lore that takes account 
Of tangled star-dust ; maps the triple whirl 

Of blue and red and argent worlds that mount 
And greet the Irish Earl ; 

" O float across the tube that Herschel sways, 
Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sapphire mist ; 

Or hang or droop along the heavenly ways, 
Like scarfs of amethyst. 

"O strange it is and wide the new- world lore, 
For next it treateth of our native dust ! 

Must dig out buried monsters, and explore 
The green earth's fruitful crust ; 

" Must write the story of her seething youth — 
How lizards paddled in her luke-warm seas ; 

Must show the cones she ripened, and forsooth 
Count seasons on her trees ; 

" Must know her weight, and pry into her age. 
Count her old beach lines by their tidal swell ; 

Her sunken mountains name, her craters gauge. 
Her cold volcanoes tell ; 

" And treat her as a ball, that one might pass 
From this hand to the other — such a ball 

As he could measure with a blade of grass, 
And say it was but small. 

" Honors ! O friend, I pray you bear with me : 
The grass hath time to grow in meadow lands, 



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HONORS. 1 7 



And leisurely the opal murmuring sea 
Breaks on her yellow sands ; 

" And leisureW the ring-dove on her nest 

Broods till her tender chick will peck the shell ; 

And leisurely down fall from fern}^ crest 
The dew-drops on the well ; 

" And leisurely your life and spirit grew, 
With yet the time to grow and ripen free : 

No judgment past withdraws that boon from you, 
Nor granteth it to me. 

" Still must I plod, and still in cities moil ; 

From precious leisure, learned leisure far. 
Dull my best self with handling common soil ; 

Yet mine those honors are. 

" Mine they are called ; they are a name which means 
' This man had steady pulses, tranquil nerves ; 

Here, as in other fields, the most he gleans 
Who works and never swerves. 

" ' We measure not his mind ; we cannot tell 

What lieth under, over, or beside 
The test we put him to : he doth excel, 

We know, where he is tried ; 

" ' But, if he boasts some further excellence — 

Mind to create as well as to attain ; 
To sway his peers by golden eloquence, 

As wind doth shift a fane ; 

" " To sing among the poets — we are naught : 

We cannot drop a line into that sea 
And read its fathoms off, nor gauge a thought, 

Nor map a simile. 



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HONORS. 



"■ 'It may be of all voices sublimar 

The only one he echoes we did try ; 
We ma}' have come upon the only star 

That twinkles in his sky.' 

" And so it was with nio." 

faUe my friend ! 

False, false, a random charge, o blame undue: 
Wrest not fair reasoning to a a-ooked end: 

False, false, as you are true! 

But I read on: " And so it was with me ; 

Your golden constellations lying apart 
They neither hailed nor greeted heartil}', 

Nor noted on their chart. 

" And yet to 3-ou and not to me belong 

Those finer instincts that, like second sight 

And hearing, catch creation's under-song. 
And see by inner light. 

" Yon are a well, whereon I, gazing, see 
Reflections of the upper heavens — a well 

From whence come deep, deep echoes up to me — 
Some underwave's low swell. 

" I cannot soar into the heights you show. 

Nor dive among the deeps that vou reveal ; 
But it is much that high things are to know, 

That deep things are to feel. 

" 'Tis yours, not mine, to pluck out of your breast 
Some human truth, whose workings recondite 

Were unattired in words, and manifest 
And hold it forth to light. 

" And cry, ' Behold this thing that I have found.' 
And though they knew not of it till that day, 



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HONORS. 



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Nor should haA-e done with no man to expound 
Its meaning, yet they say, 

" ' We do accept it : lower than the shoals 
We skim, this diyer went, nor did create. 

But find It for us deeper in our souls 
Then we can penetrate.' 

" You were to me the world's interpreter. 

The man that taught me Nature's unknown tongue, 

And to the notes of her wild dulcimer 
First set sweet words and sung. 

" And what am I to you? A steady hand 
To hold, a steadfast heart to trust withal ; 

Merely a man that loves you, and will stand 
By you, whate'er befall. 

" But need we praise his tendance tutelar 

Who feeds a flame that warms him ? Yet 'tis true 

I love you for the sake of what you are, 
And not of what you do : — 

" As heaven's high twins, whereof in Tyrian blue 
The one revolvelh ; through his course immense 

Might love his fellow of the damask hue, 
For like, and difference. 

" For different pathways ever more decreed 

To intersect, but not to interfere ; 
For common goal, two aspects, and one speed, 

One centre and one year ; 

" For deep affinities, for drawings strong. 
That by their nature each must needs exert ; 

For loved alliance, and for union long, 
That stands before desert. 



^" 



HONORS. 



'* Aud yet desert makes brighter not the less, 
For nearest liis own star he shall not fail 

To think those rays nnniatched for nobleness, 
That distance counts but pale. 

'' Be pale afar, since still to me you shine. 

And must while Nature's eldest law shall hold ; " — 

^1//,, there's the thought ivhich makes his raiulovi line 
Dear as refinhl gold! 

Tlien shall I drink this draught of oxymel. 
Part sweet, part sharp f Myself o'erprised to know 

Is sharp : the cause is sweet, and truth to tell 
Few would that cause forego, 

Which is, that this of all the men on earth 

Doth love me well enough to count me great — 
To think my soxd and his of equal girth — 

liberal estimate ! 

And yet it is so ; he is bound to me. 

For human love makes cdiens near of kin; 
By it I rise, there is equcdity : 

1 rise to thee, my ticin. 

" Take courage " — courage ! ay, my piirple 2)eer. 

I will take courage; for thy Tyrian rays 
Refresh me to the heart, and strangely dear 

And healing is thy praise. 

"' Take courage " qxioth he, " and respect the mind 

Your Maker gave, for good your fate fulfil ; 
The fate round many hearts your own to wind." 

Twin soul, I will! I will ! " 




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HONORS. 



HONORS.— PART II. 



The Answer, 



As one who, journeying, checks the rein in haste 
Because a chasm doth yawn across his way 

Too wide for leaping, and too steeply faced 
For climber to essay — 

As such an one, being brought to sudden stand, 
Doubts all his foregone path if 'twere the true, 

And turns to this and then to the other hand 
As knowing not what to do, — 

So I, being checked, am with my path at strife 
Which led to such a chasm, and there doth end. 

False path ! it cost me priceless years of life, 
My well-beloved friend. 

There fell a flute when Ganymede went up — 
The flute that he was wout to play upon : 

It dropped beside the jonquil's milk-white cup. 
And freckled cowslips wan — 

Dropped from his heedless hand when, dazed and 
mute. 

He sailed upon the eagle's quivering wing, 
Aspiring, panting — ay, it dropped — the flute 

Erewhile a cherished thing. 

Among the delicate grasses and the bells 

Of crocuses that spotted a rill side, 
1 picked up such a flute, and its clear swells 

To my young lips replied. 



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2 2 //O.VOA'S. 

I played thereou, and its response was sweet ; 

Bnt, lo, they took from me that sohxcing reed. 
" () shame ! " they said, " such music is not meet ; 

Go up lilve Ganymede. 

'•'Go up, despise these humble grassy things, 
Sit on the golden edge of yonder cloud." 

Alas ! though ne'er for me those eagle wings 
Stooped from their eyrie proud. 

M}'^ flute ! and Hung away its echoes sleep ; 

But as for me, m}' life-pulse beateth low ; 
And like a last year's leaf enshrouded deep 

Under the drifting snow. 

Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand 
Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise, 

And left to rot betwixt the sea and land, 
My helpless spirit lies. 

Ruing, I think for what then was I made ; 

What end appointed for — what use designed? 
Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed — 

Unveil these eyes gone blind. 

My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day 
Over our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled, 

So thick, one standing on their brink might sa}', 
Lo, here doth end the world. 

A white abyss beneath, and "naught beside ; 

Yet, hark ! a cropping sound not ten feet down ; 
Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that hied 

Through rock-paths cleft and brown. 

And here and there green tuftsof grass peered through 
Salt lavender, and sea thrift ; then behold, 

The mist, subsiding ever, bared to view 
A beast of giant mould. 



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HONORS. 



23 



She seemed a great sea monster lying content 
With all her cubs about her : but deep — deep • 

The subtle mist went floating ; its descent 
Showed the world's end was steep. 

It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo, 

The sprawling monster was a rock ; her brood 

Were boulders, whereon seamews white as snow 
Sat watching for their food. 

Then once again it sank, its day was done : 
Part rolled away, part vanished utterl}^ 

And glimmering softly under the white sun, 
Behold ! a great white sea. 

O that the mist which veileth my To-come 
Would so dissolve and yield unto mine eyes 

A worthy path ! I'd count not wearisome 
Long toil, nor enterprise. 

But strain to reach it ; ay, with wrestlings stout 
And hopes that even in the dark will grow 

(Like jjlants in dungeons, reaching feelers out). 
And ploddings wary and slow. 

Is there such path already made to fit 
The measure of m}" foot? It shall atone 

For much, if I at length may light on it 
And know it for mine own. 

But is there none? why, then 'tis more than well 
And glad at heart myself will hew one out. 

Let me be only sure ; for, sooth to tell. 
The sorest dole is doubt — 

Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, which mars 
All sweetest colors in its dimness same ; 

A soul-mist, through whose rifts familiar stars 
Beholding, we misname. 




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HONORS. 



A ripple on the inner sea, which shakes 
Those images that on its breast reposed ; 

A fold upon the wind-swayed flag, that breaks 
The motto it disclosed. 

doubt ! O doubt ! I know my destiny ; 

I feel thee fluttering bird-like in my breast ; 

1 cannot loose, but I will sing to thee, 
And flatter thee to rest. 

There is no certainty, "• my bosom's guest," 
No proving for the things whereof ye wot ; 

For, like the dead to sight unmanifest, 
They are, and they are not. 

But surely as they are, for God is truth, 
And as they are not, for we saw them die. 

So surely from the heaven drops light for youth, 
If youth will walk thereby. 

And can I see this light? It may be so ; 

" But see it thus and thus," my fathers said. 
The living do not rule this world ; ah, no ! 

It is the dead, the dead. 

Shall I be slave to every noble soul. 

Study the dead, and to their spirits bend ; 

Or learn to read my own heart's folded scroll. 
And make self-rule my end? 

Thought from without — O shall I take on trust, 
And life from others modelled steal or win ; 

Or shall I heave to light, and clear of rust 
My true life from within. 

O, let me be myself ! But where, O where, 
Under this heap of precedent, this mound 

Of customs, modes, and maxims, cnmbrance rare, 
Shall the Mvself be found? 



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HONORS. 



25 



O thou Myself., thy fathers thee debarred 
None of then- wisdom, but their folly came 

Therewith ; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard 
For thee to quit the same. 

With glosses they obscured God's natural truth, 
And with tradition tarnished His revealed ; 

With vain protections they endangered youth, 
With layings bare they sealed. 

What aileth thee, myself ? Alas 1 thy hands 
Are tired with old opinions — heir and son, 

Thou hast inherited thy father's lands 
And all his debts thereon. 

O that some power would give me Adam's eyes ! 

O for the straight simplicity of Eve ! 
For I see naught, or^row, poor fool, too wise 

With seeing to believe. 

Exemplars may be heaped until they hide 

The rules that they were made to render plain ; 

Love may be watched, her nature to decide, 
Until love's self doth wane. 

Ah me ! and when forgotten and foregone 
We leave the learning of departed days, 

And cease the generations past to con, 
Their wisdom and their ways — 

When fain to learn we lean into the dark. 
And grope to feel the floor of the abyss, 

Or find the secret boundary lines which mark 
Where soul and matter kiss — 

Fair world ! these puzzled souls of ours grow weak 
With beating their bruised wings against the rim 

That bounds their utmost flying, when they seek 
The distant and the dim. 



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HONORS. 



We pant, we strain like birds against their wires ; 

Are sick to reach the vast and the be^'oud ; — 
And what avails, if still to our desires 

Those far-off gulfs respond? 

Contentment comes not tlierefore ; still there lies 
An outer distance when tlie first is hailed, 

And still for ever yawns before our eyes 
An UTMOST — that is veiled. 

Searcliing those edges of the universe, 
We leave the central iields a fallow part ; 

To feed the eye more precious things amerce, 
And starve the darkened heart. 

Then all goes wrong : the old foundations rock, 
One scorns at iiim of old who gazed unshod ; 

One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock 
Shall move the seat of God. 

A little way, a very little way 

(Life is so short), they dig into the rind. 
And they are very sorry, so they say, — 

Sorry for what they find. 

But truth is sacred — ay, and must be told : 
There is a story long beloved of man ; 

We must forego it, for it will not hold — 
Nature had no such plan. 

And then, *■' if God hath said it," some should cry, 
" We have the story from the fountain head :" 

Wliy, then, what better than the old reply. 
The first "'Yea, hath God said?" 

The garden, O the garden, must it go. 

Source of our hope and our most dear regret? 

The ancient story, must it no more show 
How men may win it yet ? 



M 



W 



HONORS. 27 

And all upon the Titan child's decree, 
The baby science, born but yesterday, 

That in its rash unlearned infancy 
With shells and stones at play. 

And delving in the outworks of this world. 
And little crevices that it could reach. 

Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled 
Under an ancient beach. 

And other waifs that lay to its young mind 
Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie, 

By gain whereof it could not fail to find 
Much proof of ancientry, 

Hints at a pedigree withdrawn and vast. 

Terrible deeps, and old obscurities, 
Or soulless origin, and twilight passed 

In the primeval seas. 

Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath been 
Of truth not meant for man inheritor ; 

As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen 
And not provided for ! 

Knowledge ordained to live ! although the fate 
Of much that went before it was — to die, 

And be called ignorance by such as wait 
Till the next drift comes by. 

O marvellous credulity of man ! 

If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know 
Or follow up the mighty Artisan 

Unless He willed it so? 

And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth 
That of the Made He shall be found at fault. 

And dream of wresting from Him hidden truth 
By force or by assault? 



^ 




HONORS. 



But if he keeps not secret — if thine eyes 
He o[)eneth to His wondrous work of late — 

Think how in soberness tliy wisdom lies, 
And have the grace to wait. 

Wait, nor against the lialf-learned lesson fret, 
Nor chide at old belief as if it erred. 

Because thou canst not reconcile as yet 
The Worker and the word. 

Either the Worker did in ancient days 

Give us the word, His tale of love and might ; 

(And if in truth He gave it us, who says 
He did not give it right?) 

Or else He gave it not, and then indeed 

We know not if He is — by whom our years 

Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth lead, 
And the unfathered spheres. 

We sit unowned upon our burial sod. 

And know not whence we come or whose we be. 
Comfortless mourners for the mount of God, 

The rocks of Calvary : 

Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page 
Wrought us by some who thought with death to cope 

Despairing comforters, from age to age 
Sowing the seeds of hope : 

Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us 

Outof the slough where passed our unknown youth 

Beneficent liars, who have gifted us 
With sacred love of truth ! 

Farewell to them : yet pause ere thou unmoor 
And set thine ark adrift on unknown seas ; 

How wert thou bettered so, or more secure 
Thou, and thv destinies ! 



HONORS. 29 



And if thou searchest, and art made to fear 
Facing of unread riddles dark and hard, 

And mastering not their majesty austere, 
Their meaning locked and barred : 

How would it make the weight and wonder less, 
If, lifted from immortal shoulders down. 

The worlds were cast on seas of emptiness 
In realms without a crown, 

And (if there were no God) were left to rue 

Dominion of the air and of the fire? 
Then if there be a God, " Let God be true, 

And ever\- man a liar." 

But as for me, I do not speak as one 
That is exempt : I am with life at feud : 

My heart reproacheth me, as there were none 
Of so small gratitude ; 

Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine. 
And still thy yearning and resolve thy doubtc 

That which I know, and that which I divine, 
Alas ! have left thee out. 

I have aspired to know the might of God, 
As if the story of His love was furled. 

Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod 
Of this redeemed world : — 

Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep. 
To grope for that abyss whence evil grew. 

And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep. 
Hungry and desolate flew ; 

As if their legions did not one day crowd 

The death-pangs of the Conquering Good to see ! 

As if a sacred head had never bowed 
In death for man —for me ; 



1 


, 


,'Cl ■ ^ ■ . . ' H^- 


-. "^X 


L 


f-XTic-i S 4 h^ 








30 HONORS. 






Nor ramsomed back the souls beloved, the sons 


. 


^ Of men, from thraldom with the uether kings J 


J 




lu that dark couutrv where those evil oues 






Trail their uuhallowed wings. 






And didst Thou love the race that hned not Thee, 






And didst Thou take to heaven a human brow ? 






Dost plead with man's voice b}' the marvellous sea? 






Art Thou his kinsman now? 






God, kinsman loved, but not enough ! 






man, with eyes majestic after death. 






Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough, 






Whose lips drawn human breatli ! 






By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, 






By that one nature which doth hold us kin. 






By that high heaven where, sinless. Thou dost shine 






To draw us sinners in, 






Bv Thv last silence in the judgment-hall. 






Bv long foreknowledge of the deadly tree, 






By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall. 






I pray Thee visit me. 






Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, 






Die ere the guest adored she entertain — 






Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day 






Should miss Thy heavenly reign. 






Come wearv-eved from seeking in the night 






Thv wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold, 






AVho wounded, dving, cry to Thee for light. 






And cannot find their fold. 






And deign, Watcher, with the sleei)less brow, 




' 


-> Pathetic hi its yearning — deign reply : r, r 
Is there, is there aught that such as Thou 
Wouldst take from such as I? 




[ 






in 


' 


•/ , 


^: — j ? c 1 — 5 


v/ 


v^ "^ 


i. \ J C . 1 1.) 




\ 



M.^ 



REQUIESCAT TN PACE. 



Are there no briars across Thy pathway thrust? 

Are there no thorns that compass it about? 
Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust 

My hands to gather out? 

O, if thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, 
It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay — 

Let my lost pathway go — what aileth me ? — 
There is a better way. 

"What though unmarked the happy workman toil, 
And break unthanked of man the stuljborn clod? 

It is enough, for sacred is the soil, 
Dear are the hills of God. 

Far better in its place the lowliest bird 

Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song, 

Than that a seraph strayed should take the word 
And sing his glory wrong. 

Friend, it is time to work. I say to thee, 
Thou dost all earthly good b}' much excel : 

Thou and God's blessing are enough for me : 
My work, my work — farewell ! 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

O MY heart, my heart is sick awishing and awaiting : 
The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he went 
his way ; 
And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through 
the grating- 
Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its open- 
ing day. 

On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no 
other. 
The strong terrible mountains, he longed, he longed 
to be ; 




- HT T 



32 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

And he stooped to kiss his father, luid he stooped to 

kiss his mother, [me. 

And till I said "Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot 

He wrote of their white raiment, the ghosth' capes 
that screen them, 
Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder- 
rents and scars, 
And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes 
atween them, 
And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and 
His crocus stars. 

He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like 
tleeces. 
And make green their fir forests, and feed their 
mosses hoar ; 
Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and 
go to pieces, 
Like sloops against their cruel strength : then he 
wrote no more. 

O the silence that came next, the patience and long 
aching ! 
They never said so much as " He was a dear loved 
son ; " 
Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary 
stillness breaking : 
" Ah ! wherefore did he leave us so — this, our only 
one? " 

They sat within, as waiting, until the neighbors 
prayed them. 
At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 'twere peace and 
change to be ; 
And to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency af- 
fray ed them. 
Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and took 
me. 



w 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 



zz 



Ic was three months and over since the dear lad had 

started : [view ; 

On the green downs at Cromer I sat to see the 

On an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern 

had parted, 

Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old 

and the new. 

Below me laj- the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stoop- 
ing. 
And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet 
dye ; 
And he dyed the lighthouse towers ; every bird with 
white wing swooping 
Took his colors, and the cliffs did, and the yawn- 
ing skj-. 

Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and 
heather. 
Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer 
town ; 
And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet 
feather 
Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while he set- 
tled down. 

When I looked, I dared not sigh : — In tlie light of 
God's splendor. 
With His daily blue and gold, who am I? what 
am I? 
But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful 
sign and tender, 
Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth 
and sky. 

O for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and 
trouble I 
On that sultry August eve trouble had made me 
meek : 



Jl 



34 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 



I was tired of my sorrow — O so faint, for it was 
double 
lu the weight of its oppression, that 1 could not 
speak ! 

And a little c&mfort grew, while the dimmed e3'es 

were feeding, 

And the dull ears with murmur of waters satisfied ; 

But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts 

and fancy leading 

Across the bounds of waking life to the other side. 

And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters 
turning. 
And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to wave 
tt)ssed on ; 
And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold 
lay burning 
On the clear remote sea reaches ; for the sun was 
gone. 

Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the 
still water — 
A question as I took it, for soon an answer came 
From the tall white ruined lighthouse : *• If it be the 
old man's daughter 
That we wot of," ran the answer, " what then — 
who's to blame ? " 

I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm- 
broken : 
A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched td 
sea ; 
Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skitf the bird 
had spoken, 
And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked 
of me. 



jn; 



^" 



T^- 



llJ 



REQUIESCAT IN FACE. 



35 



I was the old nicau's daughter, the bird went ou to 
name him ; \%w\\ ; 

'' He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the 
Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did 
not shame him : 
Ay, the old m^-n was a good man — and his work 
was done." 
The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moou 
departed, 
Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as t])e red 
wave she crossed. 
And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent 
dipped and darted. 
Flying on, again was shouting, but the words 
were lost. 
I said, "That thing is hooded; I could hear but 
that floweth 
The great hood below its mouth : " then the bird 
made reply, 
'• If they knew not, niore's the pity, for the little 
shrewmouse knoweth. 
And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead 
and pye." 
And he stopped to whet his beak on the stones of 
the coping ; 
And when once more the shout came, in querulous 
tones he spake, 
"What I said was ' more's the pity;' if the heart 
be long past hoping, 
Let it say of death, ' I know it,' or doubt on and 
break. 
"Men must die — one dies by day, and near him 
moans his mother. 
They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it 
'fnlUoth: 



-1— ? 



36 



REQUIESCAT TN PACE. 



And oue dies about the midnight, and the wind 
moans, and no other. 
And the snow gives him a burial — and God loves 
them both. 

"The first hath no advantage — it shall not soothe 
his slumber 
That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall 
keep ; 
For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall not his 
quiet cr:ml:)er, 
That in a golden mesh of his callow eaglets sleep. 

"Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and 
glead know it, 
And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad 
too ; 
It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds 
blow it, 
And he met it on the mountain — whj' then make 
ado?" 

With that he spread his white wings, and swept 
across the water. 
Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went 
down ; 
And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, 
" the old man's daughter," 
And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cro- 
mer town. 

And I said, " Is that the sky, all gray and silver 

suited? " 

And I thought, " Is that the sea that lies so white 

and wan? 

I have dreamed as I remember : give me time — I 

was reputed [gone ! " 

Once to have a steady courage — O, I fear 'tis 




t 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 



37 



And I said, "Is this my heart? if it be, low 'tis 
beating, [brood ; 

So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' 
I have had a dream this evening, while the white 
and gold were fleeing. 
But I need not, need not tell it — where would be 
the good? 
" Where would be the good to them, his father and 
his mother? 
For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to 
them still. 
While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying 
red would smother. 
That gives what little light there is to a darksome 
hill?" 
I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter. 
But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. 
What can wringing of the hands do that which is 
ordained to alter? 
He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he 
would ne'er come down. 
But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but 
love thee ! 
O, to be a wild white bird, and seelv thy rocky bed ! 
From my breast I'd give the burial, pluck the down 
and spread above thee ; 
I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain 
head. 
Fare thee well, my love of loves ! would I had died 
before thee ! [flow, 

O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might 
Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my 
being o'er thee. 
And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow 
with snow ! 



i^ 




38 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

Mother. Well, Frances. 

Frances. AYell, good mother, how are you? 

31. I'm hearty, lass, but warm ; the weather's 
warm : 
I think 'tis mostly warm on market da3'S. 
I met with Cxeorge behind the mill : said he, 
" Mother, go in and rest awhile." 

F. Ay, do. 

And stay to supper ; put your basket down. 

3f. AVhy, now, it is not heavy? 

F. Willie, man, 

Get up and kiss 3'our Granny. Heavy, no ! 
Some call good churning luck ; but, luck or skill. 
Your butter mostly comes as tirm and sweet 
As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all? 

M. All but this pat that I put by for George ; 
He always loved my butter. 

F. ^ That he did. 

31. And has your speckled hen brought off her 
brood ? 

F. Not yet ; but that old duck I told you of, 
She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day. 

Child. And, Grann}-, they're so yellow. 

31. Ah, my lad. 

Yellow as gold — yellow as Willie's hair. 

C. They're all mine. Granny — father sa^'s they're 
mine. 

3/. To think of that ! 

F. Yes, Granny, only think ! 

Why, father means to sell them when they're fat, 
And put the money in the savings bank. 
And all against our Willie goes to school : 
But Willie would not touch them — ■ no. not he ; 



> 





SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



39 



He knows that father woukl be angry else. 

C But I want one to phiy with — 0,1 want 
A little yellow duck to take to bed ! 

M. What ! would you rob the poor old mother, 
then ? 

F . Now, Grann}', if you'll hold the babe awhile ; 
'Tis time I took up Willie to his crib. 

\JExit FliANCES. 



\_Motlier sings to the infant.^ 

Playing on the virginals. 

Who but I? Sae glad, sae free, 
Smelling for all cordials, 

The green mint and marjorie ; 
Set among the budding broom, 

Kingcup and daffodilly, 
By my side I made him room : 

O love my Willie ! 

" Like me, love me, girl o' gowd," 

Sang he to my nimble strain ; 
Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed 

Till my heartstrings I'ang again : 
By the broom, the bonny broom. 

Kingcup and daftbdilly, 
In my heart I made him room : 

O love my Willie ! 

"■ Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he, 

" I must go, yet pipe and play ; 
Soon I'll eonie and ask of thee 

For an answer yea or noy ; " 
And I waited till the flocks 

Panted in yon waters stilly, 
And the corn stood in the shocks : 

O love mv Willie ! 



M 



40 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



I thought first when thou didst come 

1 would wear the ring foi- thee, 
But the year told out its sum 

Ere again thou sat'st by me ; 
Thou had.st nought to ask that day 

By kingcup and daffodilly ; 
I said neither 3'ea nor nay : 
O love my Willie ! 

Enler Geok(;e. 
G. Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, or more. 
Since I set e3'es on you. 

M. Ay, George, ni}- dear, 

I reckon you've been busy : so have we. 
G. And how does lather? 

M. He gets through his work, 

But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear ; 
He's not so young, you know, by twenty years, 
As I am — not so young by twenty years. 
And I'm past sixty. 

G. Yet lie's hale and stout. 

And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe ; 
And seems to take a pleasure in his cows. 
And a pride, too. 

M. And well he ma}', my dear. 

G. Give me the little one, he tires your arm ; 
He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue, 
He almost wears our lives out with his noise 
Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep. 
What ! you young villain, would you clench your fist 
In father's curls? a dusty father, sure, 
And you're as clean as wax. 

Ay, you may laugh ; 
But if you live a seven years more or so, 
These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched 
With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll go dow^n 
As manv rat-holes as are round the mere ; 



4^^ 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



41 



And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt, 
As your father did afore you, and you'll wade 
After young water-birds ; and you'll get bogged 
Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil your clothes. 
And come home torn and dripping : then, you know 
You'll feel the stick — you'll feel the stick, my lad ! 

Elder Frances. 

F. Yon should not talk so to the blessed babe — 
How can you, George? why, he may be in heaven 
Before the time you tell of. 

M. Look at him : 

So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes ! 
He thrives, my dear. 

F. Yes, that he does, thank God ! 
My children are all strong. 

M. 'Tis much to say ; 

Sick children fret their mothers' iiearts to shreds, 
And do no credit to their keep nor care. 
Wliere is your little lass ? 

F. Your daughter came 

And begged her of us for a week or so. 

M. Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might, 
For she can sit at ease and pay her way ; 
A sober husband, too — a cheerful man — 
Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her ; 
Yet she is never easy, never glad. 
Because she has not children. Well-a-day ! 
If she could know how hard her mother worked. 
And what ado I had, and what a moil 
With my half-dozen ! Children, ay, forsooth, [come- 
They bring their own love with them when they 
But if they come not there is peace and rest ; 
The pretty lambs ! and yet she cries for more : 
Why, the world's full of them, and so is heaven — 
They are not rare. 



y 



u 



-h-^ 



^ 



SUFFER AT THE MILL. 



G. No, mother, uot at all ; 

But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long — 
She spoils her. 

M. Ah I folks spoil their children now ; 

When I was a young woman 'twas not so ; 
We made our children fear us, made them work, 
Kept them in order. 

G. Were not proud of them — 

Eh, mother? 

M. I set store by mine, 'tis true, 

But then I had good cause. 

G. ]My lad. d'ye hear? 

Your Granny was not proud, b}' no means proud ! 
She never spoilt your father — no, not she. 
Nor eA'er made him sing at harvest-home. 
Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop. 
Nor to the doctor while she lay abed 
Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth, [more, 

M. Well, well, yon were my youngest, and, what's 
Your father loved to hear you sing — he did. 
Although, good man, he could not tell one tune 
From the other. 

F. No, he got his voice from you : 
Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep. 

G. What must I sing? 

F. The Ballad of the man 

That is so shy he cannot speak his mind. 

G. A}', of the purple grapes and crimson leaves ; 
But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off. 

And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in : 
Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs, 
And let us to supper shortly. 

My neighbor White — we met to-day — 
He always had a cheerful way. 



n 



j£ 



SUPPER AT THE MIEE. 



43 



As if he breathed at ease ; 
My neighbor White lives down the glade, 
And I live higher, in the shade 

Of ray old walnut-trees. 

So many lads and lasses small, 

To feed them all, to clothe them all, 

Must surely tax his wit ; 
I see his thatch when I look out. 
His branching roses creep about, 

And vines half smother it. 

There white-haired urchins climb his eaves, 
And little watch-fires heap with leaves, 

And milky filberts hoard ; 
And there his oldest daughter stands 
With downcast eyes and skilful hands 

Before her ironing-board. 

She comforts all her mother's days. 
And with her sweet obedient ways 

She makes her labor light 
So sweet to hear, so fair to see ! 
O, she is much too good for me. 

That lovely Lettice White ! 

'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool ! 
With that same lass I went to school — 

I then was great and wise ; 
She read upon an easier book. 
And I — I never cared to look 

Into lier shy blue eyes. 

And now I know they must be there, 
Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair 

That will not I'aise their rim : 
If maids be sh}' , he cures who can ; 
But if a man be shy — a man — 

Whv then, the worse for him ! 




44 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



My mother cries, " For such a lad 
A wife is easy to be had 

And always to be found ; 
A finer scholar scarce can be, 
And for a foot and leg," says she, 

" He beats the country round ! " 

"My handsome boy must stoop his head 
To clear her door whom he would wed." 

Weak praise, but fondly sung ! 
" O mother ! scholars sometimes fail — 
And what can foot and leg avail 

To him that wants a tongue ? " 

When by her ironing-board I sit. 
Her little sisters round me flit. 

And bring me forth their store ; 
Dark cluster grapes of dusty-blue. 
And small sweet apples, bright of hue 

And crimson to the core. 

But she abideth silent, fair ; 
All shaded by her flaxen hair 

The blushes come and go ; 
I look, and I no more can speak 
Than the red sun that on her cheek 

Smiles as he lieth low. 

Sometimes the roses b}- the latch. 

Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch, 

Come sailing down like birds ; 
When from their drifts her board I clear, 
She thanks me, but I scarce can hear 

The shyly uttered words. 

Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White 
Bv daylight and b}' candlelight 



^ 



6^ ,'"* 

r f4 P 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 



45 



When we two were apart. 
Some better day come on apace, 
And let me tell her face to face, 

" Maiden, thon hast my heart." 

How gently- rock yon poplars high 
Against the reach of primrose sky 

With heaven's pale candles stored ! 
She sees them all, sweet Lettice White ; 
I'll ev'n go sit again to-night 

Beside her ironing-board ! 

Why, yon young rascal ! who would think it, now? 
No sooner do I stop than you look up. 
What would you have your poor old father do ? 
'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud. 

M. He heard the bacon sputter on the foi'k, 
And heard his mother's step across the floor. 
Where did you get that song? — 'tis new to me. 

G. I bought it of a pedler. 

M. Did you so? 

Well, you were always for the love-songs, George. 

F. My dear, just lay his head upon your arm, 
And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more 
He needs must sleep — his eyes are full of sleep. 

G. Do you sing, mother. 

F. Ay, good mother, do ; 
'Tis long since we have heard you. 

M. Like enough ; 

I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads 
I used to sing to sleep e'ertop me now. 
What should I sing for? 

G. Why, to pleasure us. 
Sing in the chimney corner, where you sit, 
And I'll pace gently with the little one. 



^^ 



k 



46 



SUPPER AT l^HE MILL. 



\_Motlie.r sings. ^ 

When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, 

My old sorrow wakes and cries. 
For I know there is dawn in the far, far noith. 

And a scarlet sun doth rise ; 
Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads. 

And the icy founts run free, 
And the liergs ])egin to bow their heads, 

And plunge, and sail in the sea. 

O my lost love, and my own, own love, 

And my love that loved me so ! 
Is there never a chink in the world above 

Where they listen for words from below ? 
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, 

I remember all that I said. 
And now thou wilt liear me no more — no more 

Till the sea gives up her dead. 

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail 

To the ice-fields and the snow ; 
Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail, 

And the end I could not know ; 
How could I tell I should love thee to-day, 

Whom that da}^ I held not dear? 
How could I know 1 should love thee away 

When I did not love thee anear? 

W^e shall walk no more through the sodden plain 

With the faded bents o'erspread, 
W^e shall stand no more bv the seething main 

While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; 
We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, 

W^here thy last farewell was said : 
But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again 

AVheu the sea gives up her dead. 



rtT^^ 




SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



47 



F. Asleep at last, and time he was, indeed. 
Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in ; 
And, mother, will you please to draw your chair? — 
The supper's ready. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

While ripening corn grew thick and deep, 
And here and there men stood to reap, 
One morn 1 put my heart to sleep, 

And to the lanes I took my way. 
The goldfinch on a thistle-head 
Stood scattering seedlets while she fed ; 
The wrens their pretty gossip spread. 

Or joined a random roundelay. 

On hanging cobwebs shone the dew, 
And thick the wayside clovers grew ; 
The feeding bee had much to do. 

So fast did honey-drops exude : 
She sucked and murnmred and was gone, 
And lit on other blooms anon, 
The while I learned a lesson on 

The source and sense of quietude. 

For sheep-bells chiming from a wold. 
Or bleat of lamb within its fold , 
Or cooing of love-legends old 

To dove-wives make not quiet less ; 
Ecstatic chirp of winged thing, 
Or bubbling of the water-spring. 
Are sounds that more than silence bring, 

Itself and its delightsomeness. 

While thus 1 went to gladness fain, 
I had but walked a mile or twain 
Before my heart woke up again, 



u 



48 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



As dreaming she bad slept too late ; 
The morning freshness that she viewed 
With her own meanings she endued, 
And touched with her solicitude 

The natures she did meditate. 

'• If quiet is, for it I wait ; 
To it, ah ! let me wed m^' fate, 
And, like a sad wife, supplicate 

My roving lord no more to flee ; 
If leisure is — but, ah! 'tis not — 
'Tis long past praying for, God wot 
The fashion of it men forgot. 

About the age of chivalry. 

"• Sweet is the leisure of the bird ; 
She craves no time for work deferred ; 
Her wings are not to aching stirred 

Providing for her helpless ones. 
Fair is the leisure of the wheat ; 
All night the damps about it fleet ; 
All day it basketh in the heat, 

And grows, and whispers orisons. 

" Grand is the leisure of the earth ; 
She gives her happy myriads birth. 
And after harvest fears not dearth. 

But goes to sleep in snow-wreat!is dim. 
Dread is the leisure up above 
The while He sits whose name is Love, 
And waits, as Noah did, for -the dove. 

To wit if she would fly to him. 

"He waits for us, while, houseless things, 
We beat about with bruised wings 
On the dark floods and water-springs. 
The ruined world, the desolate sea ; 
With open windows from the prime 
All night, all day, He waits sublime, 




llJ 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



49 



Until the fulness of the time 
Decreed from His eternity. 

"Where is ouk leisure? — Give ns rest. 

AYhere is the quiet we possessed? 

We must have had it once — were blest 

With peace whose phantoms yet entice. 
Sorely the mother of mankind 
Longed for the garden left behind ; 
For we still prove some yearnings blind 

Inherited from Paradise." 

" Hold, heart ! " I cried ; " for trouble sleeps ; 
I hear no sound of aught that weeps ; 
I will not look into thy deeps — 

I am afraid, 1 am afraid ! " 
" Afraid ! " she saith ; " and yet 'tis true 
That what man dreads he still should view — 
Should do the thing he fears to do. 

And storm the ghosts in ambuscade." 

" What good? " I sigh. " Was reason meant 
To straighten branches that are bent, 
Or soothe an ancient discontent, 

The instinct of a race dethroned? 
Ah ! doubl}" should that instinct go, 
Must the four rivers cease to flow, 
Nor yield those rumors sweet and low 

Wherewith man's life is undertoned." 

" Yet had I but the past," she cries, 
" And it was lost, I would arise 
And comfort me some other wise. 

But more than loss about me clings : 
I am but restless with my race ; 
The whispers from a heavenly place. 
Once dropped among us, seem to chase 

Rest with their prophet-visitings. 



'J— ♦- 



50 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

" The race is like a child, as yet 
Too young for all things to be set 
Plainly before him with no let 

Or hindrance meet for his degree ; 
But ne'ertheless b}' much too old 
Not to percieve tliat men withhold 
More of the story than is told, 

And so infer a mystery. 
" If the Celestials daily fly 
With messages on missions high, 
And float, our masts and turrets nigh, 

Conversing on Heaven's gieat intents ; 
What w^onder hints of coming things, 
Whereto man's hope and yearning clings. 
Should drop like feathers from their wings 

And give us vague presentiments? 

" And as the waxing moon can take 

The tidal waters in her wake 

And lead them round and round to break 

Obedient to her drawings dim ; 
So may the movements of his mind. 
The first Great Father of mankind. 
Affect with answering movements blind, 

And draw the souls that breathe by Him. 

" We had a message long ago 
That like a river peace should flow. 
And Eden bloom again l)elow. 

We heard, and we began to wait ; 
Full soon that message men forgot ; 
Yet waiting is their destined lot. 
And waiting for they know not what 

They strive with yearnings passionate. 

" Regret and faith alike enchain ; 
There was a loss, there comes a gain ; 
We stand at fault betwixt the twain, 



^^H 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 51 



And that is veiled for which we punt. 
Our lives are short, our ten times seven ; 
AVe think the councils held in heaven 
Sit lono-, ere yet that blissful leaven 

Work peace amongst the militant. 

" Then we blame God that 8in should be 
Adam began it at the tree, 
' The woman whom Thou gavest me ; ' 
And we adopt his dark device. 

long Tliou tarriest ! come and reign, 
And l)riug forgiveness in Thy train, 
And give us in our hands again 

The apples of Thy Paradise." 

" Far-seeing heart ! if that be all, 
The happy things that did not fall," 

1 sighed, " from every coppice call 

They never from that garden went. 
Behold their joy, so comfort thee, 
Behold the blossom and the bee, 
For they are yet as good and free 

As when poor Eve was innocent. 

" But reason thus : ' If we sank low, 
If the lost garden we forego. 
Each in his day, nor ever know 

But in our poet souls its face ; 
Yet we may rise until we reach 
A height untold of in its speech. 
A lesson that it could not teach 

Learn in this darker dwelling place.' 

" And reason on : ' We take the spoil ; 
Loss made us poets, and the soil 
Taught us great patience in our toil. 

And life is kin to God through death. 
Christ were not One with us but so, 
And if bereft of Him we go ; 



52 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



Dearer the heavenly mausioiis grow, 
His home, to man that waudereth.' 

" Content thee so, and ease thy smart." 
With that she slept again, ni}- heart, 
And I admired and took my part 

With crowds of happy things the while : 
With open A^elvet butterflies 
That swung and spread their peacock eyes, 
As if the}' cared no more to rise 

From oft' their beds of camomile. 

The blackcaps in an orchard met. 
Praising the berries while they ate : 
The finch that flew her beak to whet 

Before she joined them on the tree ; 
The water luouse among the reeds — 
His bright e^^es glancing black as beads, 
So happy with a bnnch of seeds — 

I felt tlieir gladness heartily. 

But I came on, I smelt the hay. 
And up the hills I took my way, 
And down them still made holiday, 

And walked, and wearied not a whit ; 
But ever with the lane I weut 
Until it dropped with steep descent, 
Cut deep into the rock, a tent 

Of maple branches roofing it. 

Adowu the rock small runlets wept. 
And reckless ivies leaned and crept, 
And little spots of sunshine slept 

On its brown steeps and made them fair ; 
And broader beams athwart it shot. 
Where martins cheeped in many a knot, 
For they had ta'en a sandy plot 

And scooped another Petra there. 



,^iL 



llj 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



53 



And deeper down, hemmed in and hid 
From upper light and life amid 
The swallows gossiping, I thrid 

Its mazes, till the dipping land 
Sank to the level of my lane : 
That was the last hill of the chain, 
And fair below I saw the plain 

That seemed cold cheer to reprimand. 

Half-drowned in sleepy peace it la}'. 
As satiate witli the boundless play 
Of sunshine on its green array. 

And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue 
To keep it safe rose up behind, 
As witli a charmed ring to bind 
The grassy sea, wliere clouds might find 

A place to bring their shadows to. 

I said, and blest that pastoral grace, 

"' How sweet thou art, thou sunny place ! 

Thy God approves thy smiling face : " 

But straight my heart put in her word ; 
She said, " Albeit thy face I bless, 
There have been times, sweet wilderness, 
When I have wished to love thee less, 

Such pangs thy smile administered." 

But, lo ! I reached a field of wheat. 
And by its gate full clear and sweet 
A workman sang, while at his feet 

Played a young child, all life and stir — 
A three years' child, with rosy lip. 
Who in the song had partnership, 
Made happy witli eacli falling chip 

Dropped by the busy carpenter. 

This, reared a new gate for the old, 
And loud tlie tuneful measure rolled, 
But stopped as I came up to hold 



^^ 



mn>^ 



54 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



Some kindly talk of passing tilings. 
Brave were his eyes, and frank his mien ; 
Of all men's faces, calm or keen, 
A better I have never seen 

In all my lonely wanderings. 

And how it was I scarce can tell, 
We seemed to please each other well ; 
I lingered till a noonday bell 

Had sonnded, and his task was done. 
An oak had screened us from the heat ; 
And 'neath it in the standing wheat, 
A cradle and a fair retreat. 

Full sweetly slept the little one. 

Tlie workman rested from his stroke, 
And manly were the words he spoke, 
Until the smiling babe awoke 

And prayed to him for milk and food. 
Then to a runlet forth he went. 
And brought a wallet from tlu' bent. 
And bade me to the meal, intent 

I should not quit his neighborhood. 

" For here," said he, " are bread and beer, 
And meat enough to make good cheer : 
Sir, eat with me, and have no fear. 

For none upon my work depend, 
Saving this cliild ; and I may say 
That I am rich, for every day 
I put by somewhat ; therefore stay, 

And to such eating condescend." 

We ate. The child — child fair to see — 
Began to cling about his knee. 
And lie down leaning fatherly 

Received some softly-prattled prayer ; 
He smiled as if to list were balm. 
And with his labor-hardened palm 



JH 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



55 



Pushed froui the baby- fore he ad cahii 

Those shining locks that clustered there. 

The rosy mouth made fresh essay — 

" O would he sing or would he play?" 

I looked, my thought would make its way — 

" Fair is your child of face and limb, 
The round blue eyes full sweetly shine." 
He answered me with glance benign — 
"Ay, Sir; but he is none of mine, 

Although I set great store by him." 

With that, as if his heart was fain 
To open — nathless not complain — 
He let my quiet questions gain 

His story : '' Not of kin to me," 
Repeating; " but asleep, awake, 
For worse, for better, him I take, 
To cherish for my dead wife's sake, 

And count him as her legacy. 

" I married with the sweetest lass 
That ever stepped on meadow grass ; 
That ever at her looking-glass 

Some pleasure took, some natural care ; 
That ever swept a cottage floor 
And worked all day, nor e'er gave o'er 
Till eve, then watched beside the door 

Till her good man should meet her there. 

" But 1 lost all in its fresh prime; 
My wife fell ill before her time — 
Just as the bells began to chime 

One Sunday morn. By next day's light 
Her little babe was born and dead, 
And she, unconscious what she said. 
With feeble hands about her spread, 

Sought it with vearninas infinite. 



jn: 



^ 



<:— 1- 



56 




SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



•' With inoLher-loiigiiig still beguiled, 
And lost in fever- fancies wild. 
She piteously bemoaned her child 

That we had stolen, she said, away. 
And ten sad days she sighed to me, 
' I cannot rest until I see 
My pretty one ! I think that he 

Smiled in n\y face but yesterday.' 
"•Then she would change, and faintly try 
To sing some tender lullaby ; 
And ' Ah ! ' would moan, ' if I- should die, 

AYho, sweetest babe, would cherish thee?' 
Then weep, ' My pretty boy is grown ; 
With tender feet on the cold stone 
He stands, for he can stand alone. 

And no one leads him motherly.' 
" Then she with dying movements slow 
Would seem to knit, or seem to sew : 
* His feet are bare, he must not go 

Unshod : ' and as her death drew on, 
' O little ])aby,' she would sigh : 
' My little child, I cannot die 
Till I have you to slumber nigh. 

You, you to set mine eyes upon.' 
'' When she spake thus, and moaning lay, 
They said, ' She cannot pass away, 
So sore she longs : ' and as the day 

Broke on the hills, I left her side. 
Mourning along this lane I went : 
Some travelling folk had pitched their tent 
Up yonder : theie a woman , })ent 

With age, sat meanly canopied. 
" A twelvemonths' child was at her side : 
' Whose infant may that be ? ' I cried. 
' His that will own him,' she replied ; 

' His mother's dead, no worse could be.' 



4-5 




SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 



57 



' Since you can give — or else I erred — 
See, you- are taken at your word,' 
Quoth I ; ' Tliat child is mine ; I heard, 

And own him ! Rise, and give him me. 
" She arose amazed, but cursed me too ; 
She could not hold such luck for true, 
But gave him soon with small ado. 

I laid him by my Lucy's side : 
Close to her face that baby crept, 
And stroked it, and the sweet soul wept ; 
Then, while upon her arm he slept. 

She passed, for she was satisfied. 
" I loved her well, I wept her sore, 
And when her funeral left my door 
I thought that I should never more 

Feel any pleasure near me glow ; 
But I have learned though this I had, 
'Tis sometimes natural to be glad, 
And no man can be always sad 

Unless he wills to have it so. 
'^Oh, I had heavy nights at first, 
And daily wakening was the worst : 
For then m}- grief arose, and burst 

Like something fresh upon my head : 
Yet when less keen it seemed to grow, 
I was not pleased — I wished to go 
Mourning adown this vale of woe. 

For all my life uncomforted. 
" I grudged myself the lightsome air. 
That makes man cheerful unaware ; 
When comfort came, I did not care 

To take it in, to feel it stir ; 
And yet God took with me His plan. 
And now for my appointed span 
I think I am a happier man 

For liaving wed and wept I'or lier. 



Ffi; 



-^ 



-rl ~ 



^ 



^J 



58 



O^ 



THE STAR'S ■MOXL'ME.VT 



" Because wo natural tie remains. 

On this small tliino- I s[)eud my gains ; 

(Jod makes me love him for mv i)ains. 

And binds me so to wholesome care : 
I would not lose from my past life 
That happy year, that happy wife ! 
Yet now I wage no useless strife 

With feelings blithe and debonair. 

" 1 have the courage to be gay. 
Although she lieth lapped away 
Under the daisies, for I say. 

* Thou wouldst be glad if thou couldst see 
INIy constant thought makes manifest 
1 have not what I love the best, 
But I must thank (Tod for th" rest 

While 1 hold heaven a verity." 

He rose ; upon his shoulder set 

The child, and while with vague regret 

We parted, pleased that we had met, 

My heart did with herself confer ; 
With wholesome shame she did repent 
Her reasonings idly eloquent. 
And said, •' I might be more content: 

But Ciod go with the carpenter." 



./^ 



THE STAR'S MOXUMEXT. 

IX TUK COXCI.l'mXG PAKT OK A DISCOURSK OX FAME, 

\_Ile thinks.^ 

If there be memory in the world to come, 

If thought lecur to some things silenced here. 

Then shall the deep heart be no longer dumb. 
But tind expression in that happier sphere ; 



k 




'' He rose ; upon his shoulder set 
The child.'' — Page 58. 



M: 



THE STARS MONUMENT. 



59 



It shall not be denied their utmost sum 

Of love, to speak without or fault or fear, 
But utter to the harp with changes sweet 
Words tliat, forbidden still, then heaven were incom- 
plete. 

Now let us talk about the ancient days. 

And things which happened long before our birtli : 

It is a pit3' to lament that praise 

Should V)e no shadow in the train of worth. 

What is it, Madam, that j'our heart dismays? 
Why murmur at the course of this vast earth? 

Think rather of the work than of the pi'aise ; 

Come, we will talk about the ancient days. 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he) : 

I will relate his story to you now. 
While through the branches of this apple-tree 

Some spots of sunshine flicker on your brow. 
While every flower hath on its breast a bee, 

And ever}- bird in stirring doth endow 
The grass with falling blooms that smoothl}^ glide 
As ships drop down a river with the tide. 

For telling of his tale no fitter place 

Than this old orchard, sloping to the west ; 
Through its pink dome of blossom I can trace 

Some overlying azure ; for the rest. 
These flowery branches round us interlace ; 

The ground is hollowed like a mossy nest : 
Who talks of fame while the religious spring- 
Offers the incense of her blossoming? 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he), 
Who, while he walked at sundown in a lane, 

Took to his heart the hoi)e that destiny 
Had singled him this guerdon to obtain. 






^\ 



1 



±£- 



3^ 



60 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



That by the power of his sweet niiustrelsy 

Some hearts for truth and goodness he should gain 
And charm some grovellers to uplift their eyes 
And suddenly wax conscious of the skies. 

" Master, good e'en to ye ! " a woodman said, 

Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears. 
"■ This hour is fine " — the Poet bowed his head. 

"More fine," he thought, "O friend! to me 
appears 
The sunset than to you ; finer the spread 

Of orange lustre through these azure spheres. 
Where little clouds lie still, like fiocks of sheep, 
Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. 
" O finer far ! What work so high as mine. 

Interpreter betwixt the world and man. 
Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, 

The mystery she wraps her in to scan ; 
Her unsyllabic voices to combine. 

And serve her with such love as poets can ; 
With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind, 
Then die, and leave the poem to mankind? 

" O fair, O fine. O lot to be desired ! 

Pearly and late ;ny heart appeals to me. 
And says, ' O work, O will — Thou man, be fired 

To earn this lot,' — she says, ' I would not be 
A worker for mine own bread, or one hired 

For mine ow^n profit. O, I would be free 
To work for others ; love so earned of them 
Should be my wages and my diadem. 
•' ' Then when I died I should not f:dl,' says she, 

'Like drooping flowers that no man noticeth, 
But like a great branch of some stately tree 

Rent in a tempest, and fiung down to death. 
Thick with green leafage — so that piteously 

Each passer by that ruin shuddereth.. 



M 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 6i 

And saith, The gap this brauch hath left is wide ; 
The loss thereof can never be supplied.' " 

But, Madam, while the Poet pondered so. 
Toward the leafy hedge he turned his eye, 

And saw two slender branches that did grow, 
And from it rising spring and flourish high ; 

Their tops were twined together fast, and, lo. 
Their shadow crossed the path as he went by — 

The shadow of a wild rose and a briar. 

And it was shaped in semblance like a lyre. 

In sooth, a lyre ! and as the soft air played. 
Those branches stirred, but did not disunite. 

"O emblem meet for me ! " the Poet said ; 
^ Ay, I accept and own thee for my right ; 

The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid. 

Distinct though frail, and clear with crimson light : 

Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain, 

And, supple, it will bend and rise again. 

" This lyre is cast across the dusty way. 

The common path that common men pursue ; 

I crave like blessing for my shadowy lay, 
Life's trodden paths with beauty to renew. 

And cheer the eve of many a toil-stained day. 
Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew. 

That 'neath men's feet its image still may be 

While yet it waves about them, living lyre, like thee ! " 

But even as the Poet spoke, behold 
He lifted up his face toward the sky ; 

The ruddy sun dipt under the gray wold. 

His shadowy lyre was gone ; and, passing by 

The woodman lifting up his shears, was bold 
Their temper on those branches twain to try, 

And all their loveliness and leafage sweet 

Fell in the pathway, at the Poet's feet. 



w 



- MPT 



62 



THE STAJi'S MONUMENT. 



'■• Ah ! my fair emblem that I chose," quoth he, 

" That for myself I coveted but now. 
Too soon, ipethinks, thou hast been false to me ; 

The lyre from pathway fades, the light from brow." 
Then straightway turned he from it hastily-. 

As dream that waking sense will disallow ; 
And while the highway heavenward paled apace, 
He went on westward to his dwelling-place. 
He went on steadily, while far and fast 

The summer darkness dropped upon the world, 
A gentle air among the cloudlets passed 

And fanned away their crimson ; then it curled 
The 3'ellow poppies in the field, and cast 

A dimness on the grasses, for it furled 
Their daisies, and swept out the purple stain 
That eve had left npon the pastoral plain. 

He reached his city. Lo I the darkened street 

Where he abode was full of gazing crowds ; 
He heard the muffled tread of many feet ; 

A multitude stood gazing at the clouds. 
"What mark ye there," said he, "and wherefore 
meet? 

Only a passing mist the heaven o'ershronds ; 
It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered spars — 
What lies behind it but the nightly stars?" 
Then did the gazing crowd to him aver 

They sought a lamp in heaven whose light was hid ; 
For that in sooth an old Astronomer 

Down from his roof had rushed into their mid, 
Frighted, and fain with otliers to confer, 

That he had cried, " O sirs ! " — and upward bid 
Them gaze — " O sirs, a light is quenched afar; 
Look up, my masters, we have lost a star ! " 

The people pointed, and the Poet's eyes 
Flew upward, where a gleaming sisterhood 




rrc 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



63 



Swam in the dewy heaven. The veiy skies 
Were mutable ; for all-amazed he stood 

To see that truly not in any wise 

He could behold thein as of old, nor could 

His eyes receive the whole whereof he wot, 

But when he told them over, one w^as not. 

While yet he gazed and pondered reverently, 

The fickle folk began to move away. 
' • It is but one star less for us to see ; 

And what does one star signify?" quoth they ; 
" The heavens are full of them." " But ah ! " said he, 

" That star was bright while vet she lasted." 
"Ay!" 
They answered : " praise her. Poet, an" 3'e will : 
Some are now shining that are brighter still." 

" Poor star ! to be disparaged so soon 

On her withdrawal," thus the Poet sighed ; 

"That men should miss and straight deny her noon 
Its brightness ! " But the people in their pride 

Said, " How are we beholden? 'twas no boon 
She gave. Her nature 'twas to shine so wide 

She could not choose but shine, nor could we know 

Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but so." 

The Poet answered sadly, " That is true ! " 
And then he thought upon unthankfulness ; 

While some went homeward ; and the residue, 
Reflecting that the stars are numberless, 

Mourned that man's daylight hours should be so few, 
So short the shining that his path may bless : 

To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips. 

And thought no more upon the star's eclipse. 

But he, the Poet, could not rest content 
Till he had found that old Astronomer ; 

Therefore at midnight to his house he went 
And prayed him be his tale's interpreter. 







S 



fex 



64 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



And yet upon the heaveu his eyes he bent. 

Hearing the marvel ; yet he sought for her 
That was awanting, in the hope her face 
Once more might fill its reft abiding-place. 

Then said the old Astronomer: " M\- son, 

I sat upon my roof to-night ; 
I saw the stars come forth, and scarcely shun 

To fringe the edges of the western light ; 
I marked those ancient clusters one by one, 

The same that blessed our old forefather's sight ; 
For God alone is older — none but He 
Can charge the stars with nuitability : 

" The elders of the night, the steadfast stars, 
The old, old stars which God has let us see. 

That they might be our soul's auxiliars, 

And help us to the truth how young we be — 

God's youngest, latest born, as if, some spars 
And a little clay being over of them — He 

Had made our world and us thereof, 3'et given, 

To humble us, the sight of His great heaven. 

" But ah ! my son, to-night mine eyes have seen 
The death of light, the end of old renown ; 

A shrinking back of glory that had been, 
A dread eclipse before the PLternal's frown. 

How soon a little grass will grow between 
These eyes and those appointed to look down 

Upon a world that was not made on high 

Till the last scenes of their long empiry ! 

" To-night that shining cluster now despoiled 
Lay in day's wake a perfect sisterhood ; 

3weet was its light to me that long had toiled, 
It gleamed and trembled o'er the distant wood ; 

Blown in a jMle the clouds from it recoiled, 
Cool twilight up the sky her way made good ; 



^" 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 65 

I saw, but not believed — it was so strange — 
That one of those same stars had suffered change. 

"• The darkness gathered, and methought she spread, 
Wrapped in a reddish haze that waxed and waned ; 

But notwithstanding to myself I said — 

' The stars are changeless ; sure some mote hath 
stained 

Mine eyes, and her fair glory ininish^d.' 
Of age and failing vision I complained. 

And thought ' some vapor in the heavens doth swim, 

That makes her look so large and yet so dim.' 

"■But I gazed round, and all her lustrous peers 
In her red presence showed but wau and white ; 

For like a living coal beheld through tears 

She glowed and quivered with a gloomy light ; 

Methought she trembled, as all sick through fears, 
Helpless, appalled, appealing to the night ; 

Like one who throws his arms up to the sky 

And bows down suffering, hopeless of reply. 

" At length, as if an everlasting Hand 
Had taken hold upon her in her place, 

And swiftly, like a golden grain of sand. 
Through all the deep infinitudes of space 

Was drawing her — God's truth as here I stand — 
Backward and inward to itself ; her face 

Fast lessened, lessened, till it looked no more 

Than smallest atom on a boundless shore. 

" And she that was so fair. I saw her lie. 
The smallest thing in God's great firmament, 

Till night was at the darkest, aud on high 

Her sisters glittered, though her light was spent ; 

I strained to follow her, each aching eye, 
So swiftlv at her Maker's will she went ; 





66 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



I looked again — I looked — the star was gone, 
And nothing marked in heaven where she had shone." 

" Gone ! " said the Poet, " and abont to be 
Forgotten : O, how sad a fate is hers ! " 

" How is it sad, my son?" all reverently 

The old man answered ; " though she ministers 

No longer with her lamp to me and thee, 

She has fulfilled her mission, God transfers 

Or dims her ray ; yet was she blest as bright, 

For all her life was spent in giving light." 

" Her mission she fulfilled assuredly," 
The poet cried : '• but, O unhappy star ! 

None praise and few will bear in memory 

The name she went by. O, from far, from far 

Comes down, methinks, her mournful voice to me. 
Full of regrets that men so thankless are." 

So said, he told that old Astronomer 

All that the gazing crowd had said of her. 

And he went on to speak in bitter wise. 
As one who seems to tell another's fate. 

But feels that nearer meaning underlies. 
And points its sadness to his own estate : 

'■' If such be the reward," he said with sighs, 
'' Envy to earn for love, for goodness hate — 

If such be thy reward, hard case is thine ! 

It had been better for thee not to shine. 

"If to reflect a light that is divine 

Makes that which doth reflect it better seen^ 

And if to see is to contemn the shrine, 
'Twere surely better it had never been : 

It had been better for her not to shine. 
And for me not to sing. Better, I ween. 

For us to yield no more that radiance bright, 

For them, to lack the light than scorn the light." 



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THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



67 



Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he) ; 
And then he paused, and sighed, and turned to 
look 
Upon the lady's downcast eyes, and see 

How fast the honey bees in settling shook 
Those apple blossoms on her from the tree ; 
He watched her busy fingers as they took 
And slipped the knotted thread, and thought how 

much 
He would have given that hand to hold — to touch. 
At length, as suddenly become aware 

Of this long pause, she lifted up her face, 
And he withdrew his eyes — she looked so fair 

And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace. 
" Ah ! little dreams she of the restless care," 

He thought, " that makes my heart to thi'ob apace. 
Though we this morning part, the knowledge sends 
No thrill to her calm pulse — we are but friends." 
Ah ! turret clock (he thought), I would thy hand 

Were hid behind yon towering maple-trees ! 
Ah ! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stand — 
Dark shadow — fast advancing to my knees ; 
Ah! foolish heart (he thought), that vainly planned 

By feigning gladness to arrive at ease ; 
Ah ! painful hour, yet pain to think it ends ; 
I must remember that we are but friends. 
And while the knotted thread moved to and fro, 

In sweet regretful tones that lady said : 
" It seemeth that the fame you would forego 

The Poet whom you tell of coveted ; 
But I would fain, methinks, his story know. 

And was he loved?" said she, " or was he wed? 
And had he friends?" "One friend, perhaps," said 

he; 
" But for the rest, I pray you let it be." 



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THE STARS MONUMENT. 



Ah ! little bird (he thought), most patient bird, 
Breastiuo; tliy speckled eggs the long day through. 

By so much as m^- reason is preferred 

Above thine instinct, I my work would do 

Better than thou dost thine. Thou hast not stirred 
This hour thy wing. Ah ! russet bird, I sue 

For a like patience to wear through these hours — 

Bird on thy nest among the apple-flowers. 

I will not speak — I will not speak to thee. 
My star ! and soon to be my lost, lost star. 

The sweetest, first, that ever shone on me. 
So high above me and beyond so far ; 

I can forego thee, but not bear to see 

My love, like rising mist, thy lustre mar : 

That were a base return for thy sweet light. 

Shine, though I never more shall see that thou art 
bright. 

Never ! 'Tis certain that no hope is — none ? 

No hope for me, and yet for tliee no fear. 
The hardest part of my hard task is done ; 

Thy calm assures me that I am not dear ; 
Though far and fast the rapid moments run, 

Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear ; 
Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart 
She is. I am her friend, and I depart. 

Silent she had been, luit she raised her face ; 

" And will you end," said she, '* this half-told 
tale ? " 
" Yes, it were best," he answered her. '' The i)lace 

Where I left off was where he felt to fail 
His courage. Madam, through the fanc}' base 

That they who love, endure, or work, may rail 
And cease — if all their love, the works they wrought, 
And their endurance, men have set at naught." 



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THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



69 



"• It had been better for me not to sing," 
My Poet said, "• and for her not to sliine ; " 

But him the old man answered, sorrowing, 
" M3' son. did Grod who made her, the Divine 

Lighter of suns, when down to yon bright ring 
He cast her like some gleaming almandine, 

And set her in her place, begirt with rays, 

Say unto her ' Give light.' or say ' Elarn praise '?" 

The Poet said, "He made her to give light." 

'• My son," the old man answered, *•' blest are such, 

A blessed lot is theirs ; but if each night 

Mankind had praised her radiance — inasmuch 

As praise had never made it wax more bright. 
And caunot now rekindle with its touch 

Her lost effulgence, it is naught. I wot 

That praise was not her blessing nor her lot." 

"Ay," said the Poet, " I my words abjure, 
And I repent me that I uttered them ; 

But by her light and by its forfeiture 
She shall not pass without her requiem. 

Though my name perish, yet shall hers endure ; 
Though I should be forgotten, she, lost gem. 

Shall be remembered ; though she sought not fame, 

It shall be busy with her l)eauteous name. 

" For I will raise in her bright memory. 
Lost now on earth, a lasting monument. 

And graven on it shall recorded be 

That all her rays to light mankind were spent ; 

And I will sing all)eit none heedeth me. 
On her exemplar being still intent : 

While in men's sight shall stand the record thus — 

' So long as she did last she lighted us.' " 

So said, he raised, according to his vow. 

On the green grass, where oft his townsfolks met. 



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THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



Uiuler the shadow of a leafy bough 
That leaned toward a singing rivulet, 

One pure white stone, whereon, like crown on brow, 
The image of the vanished star was set ; 

And this was graven on the pure white stone 

In golden letters — •' While she lived she shone." 

Madam, I cannot give this story well — 
My heart is beating to another chime ; 

My voice must needs a different cadence swell ; 
It is yon singing bird, which all the time 

AVooeth his nested mate, that doth dispel 

My thoughts. "What, deem you, could a lover's 
rhyme 

The sweetness of that passionate lay excel? 

soft, low her voice — " I cannot tell." 

[He fJtiiiks.] 

The old man — ay, he spoke, he was not hard ; 

" She was his joy," he said, " his comforter. 
But he would trust me. I was not debarred 

Whate'er my heart approved to say to her.'" 
Approved ! C) torn and tempted and ill-starred 

And breaking heart, approve not nor demur ; 
It is the serpent that beguileth thee 
With " God doth know " beneath this apple-tree. 

\ea, God doth know, and only God doth know. 
Have pity, God, my spirit groans to Thee ! 

1 bear Thy curse primeval, and I go ; 

But heavier than on Adam falls on me 
My tillage of the wilderness ; for, lo ! 

I leave behind the woman, and I see 
As 'twere the gates of Eden closing o'er 
To liide her from my sight for evermore. 



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THE STARS MONUMENT. 



71 



I am a fool, with sudden start he cried, 
To let the song-bird work me such unrest ; 

If I break off again, 1 pray you chide, 
For morning tleeteth, with my tale at best 

Half told. That white stone, Madam, gleamed beside 
The little rivulet, and all men pressed 

To read the lost one's story traced thereon. 

The golden legend — " While she lived she shone." 

And, Madam, when the Poet heard them read, 
And children spell the letters softly throi%-h. 

It may be that he felt at heart some need, 
Some craving to be thus remembered too : 

It may be that he wondered if indeed 

He must die wholly when he passed from view ; 

It ma}- be, wished, when death his eyes made dim, 

That some kind hand would raise such stone for him. 

But shortly, as there comes to most of us, 

There came to him the need to quit his home : 

To tell you why were simply hazardous. 

What said I, Madam? — men were made to roam 

My meaning is. It hath been always thus : 
They are athirst for mountains and sea foam ; 

Heirs of tliis world, what wonder if perchauce 

They long to see their grand inheritance? 

He left his city, and went forth to teach 
Mankind, his peers, the hidden harmony 

That underlies God's discords, and to reach 
And touch the master-string that like a sigh 

Thrills in their souls, as if it would beseech 
Some hand to sound it, and to satisfy 

Its yearning for expression : but no word 

Till poet touch it hath to make its music heard. 



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THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



\_He thinks.'] 

I know that God is good, though evil dwells 
Amoug us, aud dotli all things holiest share ; 

That there is joy in heaven, while yet our knells 
Sound for the souls which He has summoned tliere ; 

That painful love unsatisfied hath spells 

Earned by its smart to soothe its fellow's care ; 

But yet this atom cannot in the whole 

Forget itself — it aches a separate soul. 

\_He spealvs.'] 

But, Madam, to my Poet I return. 

AVith his sweet cadences of woven words 
He made their rude untutored hearts to burn 

And melt like gold refined. No brooding birds 
Sing better of the love that doth sojourn 

Hid in the nest of home, which softly girds 
The beating heart of life ; and, strait though it be, 
Is straitness better than wide liberty. 

He taught them, aud they learned, but not the less 

Remained unconscious whence that lore they drew, 
But dreamed that of their native nobleness 

Some lofty thoughts, that he had planted, grew ; 
His glorious maxims in a lowh' dress, 

Like seed sown broadcast, sprung in all men's view, 
The sower, passing onward, was not known. 
And all men reaped the harvest as their own. 
It may be. Madam, that those ballads sweet. 

Whose rhythmic measures yesterday we sung. 
Which time and changes make not obsolete. 

But (as a river bears down blossoms flung 
Upon its breast) talce with them while they fleet — 

It may be from his lyre that first they sprung : 
But who can tell, since work surviveth fame? — 
The rhvme is left, but lost the Poet's name. 



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THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



73 



He worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust — 
So long he wandered sowing worthy seed, 

Watering of wayside buds that were adust, 
And touching for the common ear his reed — 

So long to wear away the cankering rust 

That dulls the gold of life — so long to plead 

With sweetest music for all souls oppressed, 

That he was old ere he had thought of rest. 

Old and gray-headed, leaning on a staff. 
To that great city of his birth he came, 

And at its gates he paused with wondering laugh 
To think how changed were all his thoughts of 
fame 

Since first he cai'ved the golden epitaph 
To keep in memory a worthy name, 

And thought forgetfulness had been its doom 

But for a few bright letters on a tomb. 

The old Astronomer had long since died ; 

The friends of youth were goue and far dispersed ; 
Strange were the domes that rose on every side ; 

Strange fountains on his wondering vision burst ; 
The men of yesterday their business plied ; 

No face was left that he had known at first ; 
And in the city gardens, lo ! he sees 
The saplings that he set are stately trees. 

Upon the grass beneath their welcome shade, 
Behold ! he marks the fair white monument, 

And on its face the golden words displayed, 
For sixty years their lustre have not spent ; 

He sitteth by it and is not afraid. 
But in its shadow he is well content ; 

And envies not, though bright their gleamings are 

The ffolden letters of the vanished star. 



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74 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



He gazeth up ; exceeding bright appears 
That goldeu legend to his aged eyes, 

For they are dazzled till they fill with tears, 
And his lost Youth doth like a vision rise ; 

She saith to him, '' In all these toilsome 3'ears, 
What hast thou won by work or enterprise ? 

What hast thou won to make amends to thee, 

As thou didst swear to do, for loss of me ? 

" O man ! O white-haired man ! " the vision said, 
" Since we two sat beside this monument 

Life's clearest hues are all evanished, 

The golden wealth thou liadst of me is spent ; 

The wind hath swept thy flowers, their leaves are 
shed ; 
The music is played out that wi<:h thee went." 

"Peace, peace!" he cried; '• I lost thee, but, in 
truth, 

There are worse losses than the loss of youth." 

He said not what those losses were — but I — 
But I must leave them, for the time draws near. 

Some lose not only joy, but memory 

Of how it felt : not love that was so dear 

Lose onh% but the steadfast certainty 

That once they had it'; doubt comes on, then fear. 

And after that despondency. I wis 

The Poet must have meant such loss as this. 

But while he sat and pondered on his youth, 
He said, '■'■ It did one deed that doth remain, 

For it preserved the memory and the truth 
Of her that now doth neither set nor wane, 

But shine in all men's thoughts ; nor sink forsooth, 
And be forgotten like tlie summer rain. 

O, it is good that man should not forget 

Or benefits foregone or brishtuess set ! " 



/A. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



75 



He spoke aud s:iid, " My lot conteuteth me : 
I am right glad for this her worthy fame ; 

That which was good and great I fain would see 
Drawn with a halo round what rests — its name." 

This while the Poet said, behold, there came 
A workman with his tools anetw the tree, 

And when he read the words he paused awhile 

And pondered on them with a wondering smile. 

And then he said, " I pray you. Sir, what mean 
The golden letters of this monument?" 

In wonder quoth the Poet, " Hast thou been 
A dweller near at hand, and their intent 

Hast neither heard by voice of fame, nor seen 
The marble earlier?" " Ay," said he, and leant 

Upon his spade to hear the tale, then sigh, 

And say it was a marvel, and pass by. 

Then said the Poet, " This is strange to me." 
But as he mused, with trouble in his mind, 

A band of maids approached him leisurely, 
Like vessels sailing with a favoring wind ; 

And of their rosy lips requested he, 

As one that for a doubt would solving find. 

The tale, if tale there were, of that white stone, 

And those fair letters — ''While she lived she shone." 

Then like a fleet that floats becalmed they stay. 

" O, Sir," saith one, " this monument is old ; 
But we have heard our virtuous mothers say 

That by their mothers thus the tale was told : 
A Poet made it ; journeying then awa^-, 

He left us ; and though some the meaning hold 
For other than the ancient one, yet we 
Receive tliis legend for a certainty : — 

" There was a lily once, most purely white. 
Beneath the shadow of these boughs it grew ; 



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TT/^" STAR'S MONUMENT. 



Its starry blossom it unclosed I)}' night, 

And a young Poet loved its shape and hue. 

He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a sight 
Until a stormy wind arose and blew. 

And when he came once more his flower to greet 

Its fallen petals drifted to his feei 

" And for his beautiful white lily's sake, 

That she might be remembered where her scent 

Had been right sweet, he said that he would make 
In her dear memory a monument : 

For she was purer than a driven flake 

Of snow, and in her grace most excellent ; 

The loveliest life that death did ever mar, 

As beautiful to gaze on as a star." 

" I thank you, maid," the Poet answered her, 
" And I am glad that I have heard your tale." 

"With that they passed ; and as an inlander. 
Having heard breakers raging in a gale 

And falling down in thunder, will aver 
That still, when far away in grassy vale. 

He seems to hear those seething waters bound. 

So in his ears the maiden's voice did sound. 

He leaned his face upon his hand, and thought 
And thought, un.til a youth came by that way ; 

And once again of him the Poet sought 
The story of the star. But, well-a-day ! 

He said, ''The meaning with much doubt is fraught. 
The sense thereof can no man surely say ; 

For still tradition sways the common ear, 

That of a truth a star did disappear. 

'• But they who look beneath the outer shell 
That wraps the ' kernel of the people's lore,' 

Hold THAT for superstition ; and they tell 
That seven lovely sisters dwelt of vore 



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THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



77 



lu this old city, where it so befell 

That one a Poet loved ; that, furthermore, 
As stars above us she was pure and good, 
And fairest of that beauteous sisterhood. 

" So beautiful they were, those virgins seven, 
That all men called them clustered stars in song. 

Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven : 
But woman bideth not beneath it long ; 

For O, alas ! alas ! one fated even. 

When stars their azure deeps began to throng, 

That virgin's eyes of Poet loved waxed dim, 

And all their lustrous shining waned to him. 

'' In summer dusk she drooped her head and sighed 
Until what time the evening star went down. 

And all the other stars did shining bide 
Clear in the lustre of their old renown, 

And then — the virgin laid her down and died : 
Forgot her 3'outh, forgot her beauty's crown, 

Forgot the sisters whom she loved before, 

And broke her Poet's heart for evermore." 

'•' A mournful tale, in sooth," the lady saith : 
'' But did he truly grieve for evermore?" 

" It may be you foi-get," he answereth, 
'' That tliis is but a fable at the core 

O' the other fable." " Though it be but breath." 
She asketh, "was it true?" Then he, "This lore, 

Since it is fable, either way may go ; 

Then, if it please you, think it might be so." 

-' Nay, but," she saith, " If I had told your tale. 

The virgin should have lived his home to bless. 
Or, must she die, I would have made to fail 

His useless love." '• I tell you not the less," 
He sighs, " because it was of no avail : 

His heart the Poet would not dispossess 



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THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



Thereof. But let us leave the fable now, 
My Poet heard it with an aching brow." 

Aud he made answer thus : "I thank thee, youth; 

Strange is thy stor}' to these aged ears. 
But I bethink me thou hast told a truth 

Under the guise of fable. If my tears, 
Thou lost beloved star, lost now, forsooth. 

Indeed could bring thee back among thy peers, 
So new thou shouldst be deemed as newly seen. 
For men forget that thou hast ever been. 

" There was a morning when I longed for fame, 
There was a noontide when I passed it by, 

There is an evening when I think not shame 
Its substance and its being to deny ; 

For if men bear in mind great deeds, the name 
Of him that wrought them shall they leave to die , 

Or if his name they shall have deathless writ, 

They change the deeds that first ennobled it. 

" O golden letters of this monument ! 

O words to celebrate a loved renown 
Lost now or wrested, and to fancies lent, 

Or on a fabled forehead set for crown ! 
For my departed star, I am content. 

Though legends dim and years her memory drown ; 
For what were fame to her, compared and set 
By this great truth which y^e make lustrous yet?" 

" Adieu ! " the Poet said, " my vanished star. 
Thy duty and thy happiness were one. 

AVork is heaven's hest ; its fame is sublunar : 

The fame thou dost not need — the work is done. 

For thee I am content that these things are ; 
More than content were I, my race being run, 

]\right it be true of me, though none thereon 

Should muse reuretful — 'While he lived he shone-'" 




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THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



79 



So said, the Poet rose and went his way, 

And that same lot he proved whereof he spake, 

Madam, my story is told out ; the day 

Draws out her shadows, time doth overtake 

The morning. That which endeth call a lay, 
Sung after pause — a motto in the break 

Betw^een two chapters of a tale not new, 

Nor joyful — but a common tale. Adieu ! 

And that same God who made your face so fair, 
And gave your woman's heart its tenderness, 

So shield the blessing He implanted there. 
That it mav never turn to your distress, 

And never cost you trouble or despair, 

Nor, granted, leave the granter comfortless ; 

But like a river, blest >rhere'er it flows. 

Be still receiving while it still bestows. 

Adieu, he said, and paused, while she sat mute 
In the soft shadow of the apple-tree ; 

The skylark's song rang like a joyous flute, 
The brook went prattling past her restlessly : 

She let their tongues be her tongue's substitute : 
^ It was the wind that sighed, it was not she : 

And wdiat the lark, the brook, the wind, had said, 

We cannot tell, for none interpreted. 

Their counsels might be hard to reconcile, 
They might not suit the moment or the spot. 

She rose, and laid her work aside the while 
Down in the sunshine of that grassy plot ; 

She looked upon him with an almost smile. 
And held to him a hand that faltered not. 

One moment — bird and brook went warbling on, 

And the wind sighed again — and he was gone. 

So quietly, as if she heard no more 
Oi- skylark in the azure overhead, 



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THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



Or wiitur slipping past tlie cressy shore, 

Or wind that rose in sighs, and sighing fled— - 

So quietly, until the alders hoar 

Took him beneath them ; till the downward spread 

Of planes engulfed him in their leafy seas 

She stood beneath her rose-flushed apple-trees. 

And then she stooped toward the mossy grass, 
And gathered up her work and went her way ; 

Straight to that ancient turret she did pass, 

And startle back some fawns'that were at play. 

She did not sigh, she never said '' Alas ! " 

Although he was her friend ; but still that day, 

Where elm and hornbeam spread a towering dome 

She crossed the dells to her ancestral home. 

And did she love him? — what if she did not? 

Then home was still the home of happiest years ; 
Nor thought was exiled to partake his lot. 

Nor heart lost courage through foreboding fears ; 
Nor echo did against her secret plot. 

Nor music her betray to painful tears ; 
Nor life become a dream, and sunshine dim, 
And riches poverty, because of him. 

But did she love him? — what and if she did? 

Love cannot cool the burning Austral sand, 
Nor show the secret waters that lie hid 

In arid valleys of that desert land. 
Love has no spells can scorching winds forbid, 

Or bring the help which tarries near to hand. 
Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded eyos 
That gaze up dying into alien skies. 




i— J 



A DEAD YEAR. 



A DEAD YEAR. 

I TOOK a year out of my life and story — 
A dead year, and said, " I will hew thee a tomb ! 

' All the kings of the nations lie in glory ; ' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ; 
Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old ; 
Painted with cinnabar, and rich with gold. 

" Silent the}- rest, in solemn salvatory, 
Sealed from the moth and the owl and the flitter- 
mouse — 
Each with his name on his brow. 
' All the kings of the nations lie in glory, 
Every one in his own house : ' 
Then why not thou ? 

" Year," I said, " thou shalt not lack 
Bribes to bar thy coming back ; 
Doth old Egypt wear her best 
In the chambers of her rest? 
Doth she take to her last bed 
Beaten gold, and glorious red? 
Envy not ! for thou wilt wear 
In the dark a shroud as fair ; 
Golden with the sunny ray 
Thou withdrawest from m.y day ; 
Wrought upon with colors fine 
Stolen from this life of mine : 
Like the dusty Libyan kings, 
Lie with two wide-open wings 
On thy breast, as if to say. 
On these wings hope flew away ; 
And so housed, and thus adorned, 
Not forgotten, but not scorned, 
Let tlie dark for evermore 
Close thee when I close the door : 



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«2 A DEAD YEAR. 

And the dust for ages fall 
In the creases of thy pall ; 
And no voice nor visit rude 
Break thy sealed solitude." 

I took the year out of my life and story, 
The dead year, and said, " I have hewed tliee a 
tomb ! 
' All the kings of the nations lie in glory, 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ; 
But for the sword, and the sceptre, and diadem, 

Sure thou didst reign lilve them." 
So I laid her with those tyrants old and hoary. 

According to my vow ; 
For I said, " The kings of the nations lie in glory, 
And so shalt thou ! " 

" Rock," I said, " thy ribs are strong, 

Tliat I bring thee guard it long ; 

Hide the light from buried eyes — 

Hide it, lest the dead arise." 

'^ Year," I said, and turned away, 

" I am free of thee this day ; 

All that we two onh' know, 

I forgive and I forego. 

So thy face no mori T meet 

In the field or in the street." 

Thus we parted, she and I ; 
Life hid death, and put it by ; 
Life hid death, and said, " Be free! 
I have no more need of thee." 
No more need ! O mad mistake, 
With repentance in its wake ! 
Ignorant, and rash, and blind, 
Life had left the grave behind ; 
But had locked within its hold, 
With the spices and the gold. 



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A DEAD YEAR. 



83 



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All she hnd to keep her warm 
lu the ragiug of the storm. 

Scarce the sunset bloom was gone, 
And the little stars outshone, 
Ere the dead 3'ear, stiff and stark, 
Drew me to her in the dark ; 
Death dre^v^ life to come to her, 
Beating at her sepulchre. 
Crying out, " How can I part 
With the best share of my heart? 
Lo, it lies upon the bier, 
Captive, with the buried 3'ear. 

my heart ! " And I fell prone, 
Weeping at the sealed stone ; 

" Year among the shades," I said, 
" Since I live, and thou art dead, 
Let my captive heart be free 
Like a bird to fly to me." 
And I stayed some voice to win. 
But none answered from within ; 
And I kissed the door — and night 
Deepened till the stars waxed bright 
And I saw them set and wane. 
And the world turned green again. 

" So," I whispered, " open door, 

1 must tread this palace floor — 
Sealed palace, rich and dim. 
Let a narrow sunbeam swim 
After me, and on me spread 
While I look upon my dead ; 
Let a little warmth be free 

To come after ; let me see 
Through the doorway, when I sit 
Looking out, the swallows flit, 
Settling not till daylight goes ; 
Let me smell the wild white rose. 



^^QS^^^ I T w 



84 



A DEAD YEAR. 



Smell the woodbine and the ma}' ; 
Mark, upon a sunny da}-, 
Sated from their blossoms rise 
Honey-bees and butterflies. 
Let me hear, O ! let me hear, 
Sitting by my buried year, 
Finches chirping to their young. 
And the little noises flung 
Out of clefts where rabbits play. 
Or from falling water-spray ; 

And the gracious echoes woke 
By man's work : \X\i woodman's stroke. 
Shout of shepherd, whistling blithe. 
And the whetting of the scythe ; 
Let this be, lest shut and furled 
From the well-beloved world, 
I forget her yearnings old, 
And her troubles manifold. 
Strivings sore, submissions meet, 
And my pulse no longer beat. 
Keeping time and bearing part 
With the pulse of her great heart. 

"So! swing open, door, and shade 
Take me : I am not afraid. 
For the time will not be long ; 
Soon I shall have waxen strong — 
Strong enough my own to win 
From the grave it lies within." 

And I entered. On her bier 
Quiet lay the buried year ; 
I sat down where I could see 
Life without and sunshine free. 
Death within. And I between, 
Waited mv own heart to wean 



--^_ 



¥& 



REFLECTIONS. 

Froii] the shi-oud that shaded her 
In the rock-liewii sepulchre — 
Waited till the dead should say, 
" Heart, be free of me this day." 
Waited with a patient will — 

And I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL. 

I take the year back to my life and story, 
The dead j-ear and say, '• I will share in thy tomb. 

' All the kings of the nations lie in glory ; ' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ! 
They reigned in their lifetime with sceptre and 
diadem. 

But thou excellest them ; 
For life doth make thy grave her orator}*. 

And the crown is still on thy brow ; 
' All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' 

And so dost thou." 




KEFLECTIOIs'S. 

Written for the Portfolio Sociefi/, Jtili/, 18()2. 

LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A POOL IX A FIELD. 

What change has made the pastures sweet 
And reached the daisies at my feet. 

And cloud that wears a golden hem? 
This lovely world, the hills, the sward — 
They all look fresh, as if our Lord 

But yesterday had finished them. 

And here's the field with light aglow ; 
How fresh its boundary lime-trees show, 

And how its wet leaves trembling shine ! 
Between their trunks come through to me 
The morning si)arkles of the sea * 

Below the level browsinar line. 



^" 



86 



REFLECTJOXS. 



I see the pool more cletir by halt" 
Than pools where other waters laugh 

Up at the breasts of coot and rail. 
There, as she passed it on her way, 
I saw reflected yesterday 

A maiden with a milkiug-pail. 

There, neither slowly nor in haste, 
One hand upon her slender waist. 

The other lifted to her i^ail, 
She, rosy in the morning light, 
Among the water-daisies white. 

Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. 

Against her ankles as she trod 
The lucky buttercups did nod. 

I leaned upon the gate to see : 
The sweet thing looked, but did not speak ; 
A dimple came in either cheek. 

And all my heart was gone from me. 

Then, as I lingered on the gate. 
And she came up like coming fate. 

I saw my picture in her eyes — 
Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes. 
Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows 

Among white-headed majesties. 

I said. •' .V tale was made of old 
That I would fain to thee unfold ; 

Ah ! let me — let me tell the tale." 
But high she held her comely head ; 
"• I cannot heed it now," she said, 

•• For carrying of the milkiug-pail." 

Slie laughed. What good to make ado? 
1 hehl the gate, and she came through. 
And took her homeward path anon. 
From the clear pool her face had lied ; 



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" I saw reflected yesterday 
A maiden with a milking-pail." — Page 86. 



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REFLECTIONS. 87 






It rested on my heart instead, 




J '^ Reflected when the maid was gone. 


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With happy youth, and work content, 








So sweet and stately on she went, 








Right careless of tlie untold tale. 








Each step she took I loved her more, 








And followed to her dairy door 








The maiden with the milking-pail. 








II. 
For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, 








How fine, how blest a thing is work ! 








For work does good when reasons fail — 








Good ; yet the axe at every stroke 








The echo of a name awoke — 








Her name is Mary Martindale. 








I'm glad that echo was not heard 








Aright by other men : a bird 








Knows doubtless what his own notes tell ; 








And I know not ; but I can say 








I felt as shame-faced all that day 








As if folks heard her name right well. 








And when the west began to glow 








I went — I could not choose but go — 








To that same daii-y on the hill ; 








And while sweet Mary moved about 








Within, I came to her without. 








And leaned upon the window-sill. 








The garden border where I stood 








Was sweet Avith pinks and southern-wood. 








I spoke — her answer seemed to fail ; 








IP I smelt the pinks — I could not see ; 


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The dusk came down and sheltered me.. 








And in the dusk she heard my tale. 








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88 



THE LETTER L. 



And wliat is left that I should tell? 
1 begged a kiss, I pleaded well : 

The rosebud lips did long decline ; 
But yet I think, I think 'tis true, 
That leaned at last into the dew, 

One little instant they were mine. 

O life ! how dear thou hast become ; 
She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb. 

But evening counsels best prevail. 
Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, 
Green be the pastures where she treads, 

The maiden with the milking-pail ! 



THE LETTER L. 



We sat on grassy slopes that meet 
With sudden dip the level strand; 

The trees hung overhead — our feet 
Were on the sand. 

Two silent girls, a thoughtful man. 
We sunned ourselves in open light, 

And felt such April airs as fan 
The Isle of Wight ; 

And smelt the wall-flower in the crag 
Whereon that dainty waft had fed, 

Which made the bell-hung cowslip wag 
Her delicate head ; 

And let alighting jackdaws fleet 
Adown it open-winged, and pass 

Till they could touch with outstretched feet 
The warmed arass. 



.xrn 



THE LETTER L. 



The happ3- wave ran up and rang 
Like service bells a long way off, 

And down a little freshet sprang 
From mossy trough, 

And splashed into a rain of spray, 
And fretted on with daylight's loss, 

Because so many blue-bells Tay 
Leaning across. 

Blue martins gossiped in the sun, 

And pairs of chattering daws flew by, 

And sailing brigs rocked softly on 
In company. 

Wild cherry boughs above us spread 
The whitest shade was ever seen, 

And flicker, flicker, came and fled 
Sun-spots between. 

Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom 
As babes will sigh for deep content 

When their sweet hearts for peace make room, 
As given, not lent. 

And we saw on : we said no word, 
And one was lost in musings rare. 

One buoyant as the waft that stirred 
Her shining hair. 

His eyes were bent upon the sand, 
Unfathomed deeps within them lay ; 

A slender rod was in his hand — 
A hazel spray. 

Her eyes were resting on his face. 

As shyly glad by stealth to glean 
Impressions of his manly grace 

And guarded mien ; 



iir 



90 




THE LETTER L. 



The inouth with steady sweetness set, 

And eyes conveying unaware 
The distant hint of some regi'et 

That luirboi'L'd there. 

She gazed, and in the tender flush 
That made her face like roses blown, 

And in the radiance and the hush, 
Her thought was shown. 

It was a happy thing to sit 

So near, nor mar his reverie ; 
She looked not for a part in it, 

So meek was she. 

But it was solace for her eyes. 

And for her heart, that yem-ned to him. 
To watch apart in loving wise 

Those musings dim. 

Lost — lost, and gone ! The Pelham woods 
Were full of doves that cooed at ease ; 

The orchis filled her purple hoods 
For dainty bees. 

He heard not ; all the delicate air 
Was fresh with falling water-spray ; 

It mattered not — he was not there, 
But far away. 

Till with the hazel in his hand. 

Still drowned in thought, it thus befell ; 
He drew a letter on the sand — 

The letter L. 

And looking on it. straight there wrought 

A ruddy flush about his brow ; 
His letter woke bim : absent thought 

Rushed homeward now. 



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THE LETTER L. 91 






And, halt-abashed, his hasty touch 


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Effaced it with a tell-tale care, 


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As if his action had been uiiich, 
Aud not his air. 

And slie ? she watched his open palm 
Smooth out the letter from the sand, 

And rose, with aspect almost calm, 
And filled her hand 

With cherry bloom : and moved away 
To gather wild forget-me-not. 

And let her errant footsteps stray 
To one sweet spot, 

As if she coveted the fair 

Wiiite lining of the silver weed 

And cuckoo-pint that shaded there 
Empurpled seed. 

She had not feared, as I divine, 
\ Because she had not hoped. Alas ! 
The sorrow of it ! for that sign 
Came but to pass ; 

And yet it robbed her of the right 
To give, who looked not to receive, 

And made her ])lush in love's despite 
That she should grieve. 

A shape in white, she turned to gaze ; 

Her eyes were shaded with her hand, 
And half-way up the winding ways 

We saw her stand. 

Green hollows of the fringfed cliff, 






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Red rocks that under waters show, 


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Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff. 








Were spread below. 






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92 



THE LETTER L. 



!She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh. 

Perhaps to think ; but who cau tell 
How heavy on her heart must lie 

The letter L ! 



She came anon with quiet grace ; 

And '' What," she murnmred, ''silent yet I" 
He answered, " 'Tis a haunted place. 

And spell- beset. 

" O speak to us, and break the spell ! " 
"The spell is broken," she replied. 

" I crossed the running brook, it fell, 
It could not bide. 

"And I have brought a budding world 
Of orchis spires and daisies rank, 

And ferny plumes but half uncurled, 
From yonder bank ; 

" And I shall weave of them a crown, 
And at the well-head launch it free, ' 

That so the brook may float it down, 
And out to sea. 

" There ma}' it to some English hands 
From fairy meadow seem to come ; 

The f airyest of fairy lands — 
The land of home." 

" "Weave on," he said, ana as she wove 
We told how currents in the deep, 

With branches from a lemon grove, 
Blue bergs will sweep. 

And messages from shipwrecked folk 
Will navigate the moon-led main. 

And painted l)oards of splintered oak 
Their port regain. 



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THE LETTER L. 



93 



Then floated out by vagraut thought, 

My soul beheld on torrid sand 
The wasteful water set at naught 

Man's skilful hand, 

And suck out gold-dust from the box, 
And wash it down in weedy whirls, 

And split the wine-keg on the rocks. 
And lose the pearls. 

"Ah ! why to tliat which needs it not," 

Methought, " sliould costly things be given? 

How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot, 
On this side heaven ! 

So musing, did mine ears awake 
To maiden tones of sweet reserve, 

And manly speech that seemed to make 
The steady curve 

Of lips that uttered it defer 

Their guard, and soften for the thought : 
She listened, and his talk with hef 

Was fancy fraught. 

" There is not much in liberty" — 

With doubtful pauses he began ; 
And said to her and said to me, 

" There was a man — 

" There was a man who dreamed one night 
That his dead father came to him. 

And said, when fire was low, and light 
Was l>urning dim — 

" ' Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride, 
Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam? 

Sure home is best ! ' Tlie son replied, 
' I have no home.' • 





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94 TT/A^ LETTER L. 


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" ' Shall not I speak? ' his father said, 
' Who early chose a youthful wife, 

And worked for her, and with her led 
Mj- happ3' life. 






" ' Ay, I will speak, for I was young 
As thou art now, when I did hold 

The prattling sweetness of thy tongue 
Dearer than gold ; 








" ' And ros}' from thy noonday sleep 
Would bear thee to admiring kin. 

And all thy prett}' looks would keep 
My heart within. 








" ' Then after, 'mid thy 3'onng allies — 
For thee ambition flushed my brow — 

I coveted the schoolboy prize 
Far more than thou. 








'^ ' I thought for thee, I thought fcr all 
M}' gamesome imps that round me gi'ew ; 

The dews of blessing heaviest fall 
Where care falls too. 








" ' And I that sent my boys away. 

In youthful strength to earn their bread, 

And died before the hair was gray 
Upon my head — 








'"I say to thee, though free from care, 
A lonely lot, an aimless life. 

The crowning comfort is not there — 
Sou, take a wife.' 






- 


" ' Father beloved,' the son 'rephed, 

And failed to gather to his breast, j 
With arms in darkness searching wide. 

The formless guest. 




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C— 1 5 r 1 


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1 — S 







THE LETTER L. 



95 



" ' I am but free, as sorrow is, 

To chy her tears, to laugh, to talk ; 

And free, as sick men are, I wis, 
To rise and walk. 

" ' And free, as poor men are, to buy 
If they have naught wherewith to pay ; 

Nor hope the debt, before they die, 
To wipe away. 

" ' What 'vails it there are wives to win. 
And faithful hearts for those to yearn, 

Who find not aught thereto akin 
To make return? 

" ' Shall he take much who little gives 

And dwells in spirit far away, 
When she that in his presence lives. 

Doth never stray, 

" ' But, waking, guideth as beseems 

The happy house in order trim, 
And tends her babes ; and, sleeping, dreams 

Of them and him? 

" ' O base, O cold,' " — while thus he spake 
The dream broke off, the vision fled ; 

He carried on his speech awake, 
And sighing, said — 

" ' I had — ah, happy man ! — I had 

A precious jewel in my breast, 
And while I kept it I was glad 

At work, at rest ! 

" ' Call it a heart, and call it strong 
As upward stroke of eagle's wing ; 

Then call it weak, you shall not wrong 
The beatino; thine. 



']} 



96 



T//E LETTER /.. 



" ' lu tangles of the jungle reed, 
"Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes, 

In shipwreck drifting with the weed 
'Neath rainy skies, 

^' ' Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen. 
At danger gazed with awed delight, 

As if sea would not drown, I ween, 
Nor serpent bite. 

" ' I had — ah, happy ! but 'tis gone. 
The priceless jewel ; one came b}'. 

And saw and stood awhile to con 
With curious eye, 

" ' And wished for it, and faintly smiled 
From under lashes black as doom. 

With subtle sweetness, tender, mild. 
That did illume 

" ' The perfect face, and shed on it 
A charm, half feeling, half surprise, 

And brim with dreams the exquisite 
Brown blessed eyes. 

" ' Was it for this, no more but this, 
I took and laid it in her hand. 

By dimples ruled, to hint submiss, 
By frown unmanned? 

" ' It was for this — and O farewell 
The fearless foot, the present mind, 

And steady will to breast the swell 
And face the wind ! 

" ' I gave the jewel from my breast. 
She played with it a little while 

As I sailed down into the west. 
Fed bv her smile ; 



^- 




w 




THE LETTER L. 



97 



" ' Then weary of it — far from land, 

AVith sighs as deep as destin}', 
She let it drop from her fair hand 

Into the sea. 

" ' And watched it sink ; and I — and I, — 
What shall I do, for all is vain ' 

No wave will bring, no gold will buy, 
No toil attain ; 

" ' Nor an}' diver reach to raise 
My jewel from the blue abyss ; 

Or could they, still I should but praise 
Their work amiss. 

" ' Thrown, thrown away ! But I love yet 
The fair, fair hand which did the deed : 

That wayward sweetness to forget 
Were bitter meed. 

" ' No, let it lie, and let the wave 

Roll over it for evermore ; 
Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave — 

The sea her store. 

" ' M}' heart, my sometime happy heart! 

And O for once let me complain, 
I must forego life's better part — 

Man's dearer gain. 

" ' I worked afar that I might rear 
A peaceful home on English soil ; 

I labored for the gold and gear — 
I loved m}' toil. 

" ' Forever in my spirit spake 

The natural whisper, ' "• Well 'twill be 

AYhen loving wife and children break 
Their bread with thee ! " 



^' 




98 



THE LETTER E 



" ' The gatliered gold is turned to dross. 

The wile liiith luded into air, 
My heart is thrown away, my loss 

I cannot spare. 

" ' Not spare unsated thought her food — 

No, not one rustle of the fold, 
Nor scent of eastern sandalwood, 

Nor gleam of gold ; 

" ' Nor quaint devices of the shawl, 
Far less the drooping lashes meek : 

The gracious figure, lithe and tall, 
The dimpled cheek ; 

" ' And all the wonders of her eA-es, 

And sweet caprices of her air, 
Albeit, indignant reason cries, 

Fool ! have a care. 

" 'Fool^. join not madness to mistake ; 

Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit ; 
Only that she thy heart might break — 

She wanted it, 

" ' Only the conquered thing to chain 
So fast that none might set it free. 

Nor other woman there might reign 
And comfort thee. 

" ' Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet: 
Love dead outside her closed door. 

And passion fainting at her feet 
To wake no more ; 

" 'What canst thou give that unknown bride 
Whom thou didst work for in the waste. 

Ere fated love was born , antl cried — 
Was dead, ungraced? 



THE LETTER L. 



99 



" ' No more but this, the partial care, 
The natural kindness for its own, 

The trust that vvaxeth unaware, 
As worth is known : 

" ' Observance, and complacent thought 

Indulgent, and the honor duo 
That many another man has brought 

Who brougiit love too. 

" ' Nay, then, forbid it, Heaven ! ' he said, 
' The saintly vision fades from me ; 

bands and chains ! I cannot wed — 
I am not free.' " 

With that he raised his face to view ; 

" What think you," asking, " of my tale? 
And was he right to let the dew 

Of morn exhale, 

"And burdened in the noontide sun. 
The grateful shade of home forego — 

Could he be right — I ask as one 
Who fain would know ? " 

He spoke to her and spoke to me ; 

The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek ; 
The woven crown lay on her knee ; 

She would not speak. 

And I with doubtful pause — averse 
To let occasion drift away#— 

1 answered — "if his case were worse 
Than word can say, 

" Time is a liealer of sick hearts, 

And women have l)een known to choose, 

With purpose to allay their smarts. 
And tend their bruise, 



— h^C 



THE LEI ri:R L. 



PUKSENT. 



A mpadow, whore the i^iMss was (.loop, 
Kioh, sqiuuv, and iioUleu to the view, 

A belt of olms, with level sweep 
About it li'ivw. 



?t-lv 



" These for themselves. Content to give 
In their own hivish love complete, 

Taking for sole prerogative 
Thoir tendance sweet. 

"Such meeting in their diadem 
Of crowning love's ethereal fire, 

Himself he robs who robboth tiiem 
Of their desire. 

" Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried 

Against his lot that evensong, 
I judge him honest, and decide 

That lie was wrong." 

""When T am judged, ah, may my fate," 
He whispered, "in thy code be read! 

Be thou both judge and advocate." 
Then turned, lie said — 

" P^'air weaver ! " touching, while he spoke 
The woven crown, the weaving hand, 

" And do you this decree revoke, 
Or may it stand? 

" This friend, you ever think her right — 
She is not wrong, then?" Soft and low 

The little trembling word took flight : 
She answered, ^ No." 



m 



■^ 



^ 



\; 



THE LETTER L. 



The sun beat down on it, the Hne 

Of shade was clear beneath the trees ; 

There, by a clustering eglantine, 
AVc sat at ease. 

And (J the buttercups ! that field 

O' the cloth of gold, where peniHjns swam- 
Wh(;rc France; set up his lilicd sliicld, 

His orillaniiiH'. 

And Henry's lion-staiidard rolled: 

What was it to their matchless sheen, 

Their million million drops of gold 
Among the green ! 

We sat at ease in peaceful trust. 
For he had written, " Let us meet ; 

My wife grew tired of smoke and dust. 
And L(mdon heat, 

'' And 1 have found a quiet grange. 
Set back in meadows sloping west, 

And there our little ones can range 
And she can rest. 

'' Come down, that we ma}- show tlie view, 
And she may hear your voice again. 

And talk her woman's talk with 3-on 
Along the iane." 

Since he had drawn with listless liand 
The letter, six long 3'ears had fl(;d, 

And winds had blown about the sand, 
And they were wed. 

Two rosy urchins near him played. 

Or watched, entranced, the sha[)ely ships 

That with his knife for them he made 
Of elder slips. 



Jl 



"W 




Hii 



THK LETTER L. 



And where the flowers were thickest shed, 
Each blossom like a burnished gem, 

A creeping bab}' reared its head, 
And cooed at them. 

And calm was on the father's face, 
And love was in the mother's e^'es ; 

She looked and listened from her place, 
In tender wise. 

She did not need to raise her voice 

That they might hear, slie sat so nigh ; 

Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice, 
And soft reply. 

Holding our quiet talk apart 

Of household things ; till, all unsealed, 
The guarded outworks of the heart 

Began to yield ; 

And much that iirudence will not dip 
The pen to fix and send away. 

Passed safely over from the lip 
That summer day. 

" I should be happy," with a look 
Towards her husband where he lay, 

Lost in the pages of his book. 
Soft did she say ; 

" I am, and 3'et no lot below 
For one whole day eludeth care ; 

To marriage all the stories flow, 
And finish there : 

" As if with marriage came the end. 
The entrance into settled rest, 

The calm to which love's tossings tend. 
The quiet breast. 



<^ " 



THE LETTER L. 



"For me love played the low preludes, 
Yet life began but with the ring, 

Such infinite solicitudes 
Around it cling. 

" I did not for my heart divine 
Her destiny so meek to grow ; 

The higher nature matched with mine 
Will have it so. 

" Still I consider it, and still 

Acknowledge it my master made, 

Above me by the steadier will 
Of naught afraid. 

"Above me by \)a^ candid speech ; 

The temperate judgment of its own ; 
The keener thoughts that grasp and reach 

At things unknown. 

" But I look up and he looks down, 
And thus our married eyes can meet ; 

Unclouded his, and clear of frown, 
And gravely sweet. 

" And yet, O good, O wise and true ! 

I would for all m}- fealty, 
That I could be as much to you 

As you to me ; 

" And knew the deep secure content 
Of wives who have been hardly won 

And, long petitioned, gave assent, 
Jealous of none. 

" But proudly sure in all the earth 
No other in that homage shares, 

Nor other woman's face or worth 
Ts prized as theirs." 



^^ 





^E^ 



104 



THE LETTER L. 



I said: " And yet no lot heloio 
For one whole day elndeth care. 

Your thought." She answered, "Even so, 
I would beware 

" Regretful questionings ; be sure 

That very seldom do they rise, 
Nor for myself do I endure — 

I sympathize. 

" For once " — she turned away her head, 
Across the grass she swept her hand — 

" There was a letter once," she said, 
" Upon the sand." 

"There was, in truth, adetter writ 

On sand," I said, " and swept from view. 

But that same hand which fashioned it 
Is given to you. 

" Efface the letter ; wherefore keep 
An image which the sands forego ! " 

"Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep," 
She answered low, 

" I could not choose but wake it now ; 

For do but turn aside your face, 
A house on yonder hilly brow 

Your eyes may trace. 

" The chestnut shelters it ; ah me. 
That I should have so faint a heart ! 

But yester eve, as by the sea 
I sat apart, 

" I heard a name, I saw a hand 

Of passing stranger point tliat way — 

And will he meet her on the strand. 
When late we strav? 




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T//E LETTER L. 105 


«J L 




" For she is come, for she is there, 
I heard it in the dusk, and heard 

Admiring words, that named her fair, 
But little stirred 






" By beauty of the wood and wave. 
And weary of an old man's sway ! 

For it was sweeter to enslave 
Than to obey." 










— The voice of one that near us stood. 

The rustle of a silken fold, 
A scent of eastern sandalwood, 

A gleam of gold ! 

A ladj- ! In the narrow space 

Between the husband and the wife. 

But nearest him — she showed a face 
With dangers rife ; 

A subtle smile that dimpling fled, 
As nigiit-black lashes rose and fell : 

I looked, and to myself I said, 
" The Letter L." 

He, too, looked up, and with arrest 
Of breath and motion held his gaze, 

Nor cared to hide within his breast 
His deep amaze ; 

Nor spoke till on her near advance 
His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue : 

And with his change of countenance 
Hers altered too. 






> 




" Lenore ! " his voice was like the cry 
Of one entreating ; and he said 

But that — then paused with such a sigh 
As mourns the dead. 


1 f 








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111: 



io6 



THE LETTER L. 



And seated near, with no demur 
Of bashful doubt she silence broke, 

Though I alone could answer her 
When first she spoke. 

She looked : her eyes were beauty's own ; 

She shed their sweetness into his ; 
Nor spared the married wife one moan 

That bitterest is. 

She spoke, and, lo, her loveliness 

Methought she damaged with her tongue : 

And every sentence made it less. 
So false they rung. 

The rallying voice, the light demand, 

Half flippant, half unsatisfied ; 
The vanity sincere and bland — 

The answers wide. 

And now her talk was of the East, 
And next her talk was of the sea ; 

" And has the love for it increased 
You shared with me ? " 

He answered not, but grave and still 
With earnest eyes her face perused, 

And locked his lips with steady will. 
As one that mused — 

That mused and wondered. Why his gaze 
Should dwell on her, methought, was plain ; 

But reason that should wonder raise 
I sought in vain. 

And near and near the children drew, 

Attracted by her rich array. 
And gems that trembling into view 

Like raindrops la}'. 



Jfl 



A 



THE LETTER L. 



107 



He spoke : the wife her baby took 
And pressed the little face to hers ; 

What pain soe'er her bosom shook, 
What jealous stirs 

Might stab her heart, she hid them so. 
The cooing babe a veil supplied ; 

And if she listened none might know 
Or if she sighed ; 

Or if, forecasting grief and care. 
Unconscious solace thence she drew 

And lulled her babe, and unaware 
Lulled sorrow too. 

The lady, she interpreter 

For look or language wanted none, 
If yet dominion stayed with her — 

So lightly won : 

If yet the heart she wounded sore 
Could yearn to her, and let her see 

The homage that was evermore 
Disloyalty ; 

If sign would yield that it had bled, 
Or rallied from the faithless blow, 

Or sick or sullen stooped to wed. 
She craved to know. 

Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, 
Her asking eyes would round him shine ; 

But guarded lips and settled mien 
Refused the sign. 

And unbeguiled and unbetrayed, 
The wonder j^et within his breast. 

It seemed a watchful part he played 
Against her quest. 



J I 



^ 



io8 



THE LETTER L. 



Until with accent of regret 

She touched upon tlie past once more, 
As if she dared him to forget 

Ilis dream of yore. 

And words of little Aveight let Ml 
The fancy of the lower mind ; 

How waxing life must needs leave all 
Its best behind ; 

How he had said that " he would fain 
(One morning on the halcyon sea) 

That life would at a stand remain 
Eternally ; 

" And sails be mirrored in the deep, 
As then they Avere for evermore. 

And happy spirits wake and sleep 
Afar from shore : 

<' The well-contented heart be fed 
Ever as then, and all the world 

(It were not small) unshadowed 
When sails were furled. 

"Your words" — a pause, and quietly 
With touch of calm self-ridicule : 

" It maj' be so — for then," said he, 
" I was a fool." 

With that he took his book, and left 
An awkward silence to my care. 

That soon I filled with questions deft 
And debonair ; 

And slid into an easy vein. 

The favorite picture of the year ; 

The grouse upon her lord's domain — 
The salmon weir ; 



tt" 



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THE LETTER L. 



109 



Till she could feign a sudden thought 
Upon neglected guests, and rise 

And make us her adieux, with naught 
In her dark eyes 

Acknowledging or shame or pain ; 

But just unveiling for our view 
A little smile of still disdain 

As she withdrew. 

Then nearer did the sunshine creep, 
And warmer came the wafting breeze ; 

The little babe was fast asleep 
On mother's knees. 

Fair was the face that o'er it leant. 

The cheeks with beauteous blushes dj'ed ; 

The downcast lashes, shyly bent, 
That failed to hide 

Some tender shame. She did not see ; 

She felt his eyes that would not stir ; 
She looked upon her babe, and he 

So looked at her. 

So grave, so wondering, so content. 
As one new waked to conscious life, 

Whose sudden joy with fear is blent. 
He said, "My wife." 

" My wife, how beautiful j'ou are ! " 
Then closer at her side reclined ; 

" The bold brown woman from afar 
Comes, to me blind. 

" And by comparison I see 
The majesty of matron grace, 

And learn how pure, how fair can be 
My own wife's face : 



|g— I- 




- ^rr 



THE LETTER L. 



"Pure with all faithful passion, fair 

With tender smiles that come and go ; 
And comforting as April air 

After the snow. 

" Fool that I was ! my spirit frets 
Aud marvels at the humbling truth, 

That I have deigned to speud regrets 
On my bruised youth. 

" Its idol mocked thee, seated nis;!-, 
And shamed me for the mad mistake ; 

I thank my God he could deny. 
And she forsake. 

" Ah, who am I, that God hath saved 
Me from the doom I did desire. 

And crossed the lot nn^self had craved, 
To set me higher? 

' ' What have I done that He should bow 
From heaven to choose a wife for me ? 

And what deserved, He should endow 
My home with thee ? 

" My wife ! " With that she turned her face 
To kiss the hand about her neck ; 

And I went down and sought the place 
Where leaped the beck — 

The busy beck, that still would run 

And fall, aud falter its refrain ; 
And pause and shimmer in the sun, 

And fall again. 

It led me to the sand}' shore, 

We sang together, it and I — 
"■ The daylight comes, the dark is o'er, 

The shadows flv." 



t-;-! /■\ 



THE HIGH TIDE, ETC. 



I lost it on the sand}- shore, 

" O wife ! " its latest murmurs fell, 
" O wife, be glad and fear no more 

The letter L." 



THE HIGH TIDE OX THE COAST OF LINCOLN- 
SHIRE. 

(loTl.) 

The old maj-or climbed the belfry tower, 

The ringers ran b^- two, by three ; 
'' Pull, if ye never jHiUed before ; 

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 
'' Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! • 
Ply all your changes, all your swells, 

Play uppe ' The Brides of Enderby.' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it. He knows all ; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that 'the bells let fall : 

And there was naught of strange, beside 

The flight of mews and peewits pied 

By millions crouched on the old sea wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread break off, I raised myne eyes ; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
Lay sinking in the b-arren skies ; 

And dark against day's golden death 

She moved where Lindis wandereth, 
M}' Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

" Cusha ! Cusha I Cusha ! " calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE 



Farre away I heard her song, 
'• Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along ; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Flowi'th, floweth, 
From the meads where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking song — 

" Cnsha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " callhig, 
"• For the dews will soone be falling ; 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

INk'llow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot 
Quit the stalks of parsley liollow, 

IIoUow, hollow ; 
Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 
From the clovers lift yonr head ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfooi, 
Come uppe. Jetty, rise and follow, 
Jetty to tlie milking shed." 

If it be long, ay, long ago. 

When I begiuue to think liowe long, 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; 
And all the aire, it seemeth mee. 
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay. 
And not a shadowe mote be scene, 

Save where full fyve good miles away 

The steeple towered from out the greene ; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturdav at exentide. 



c I 3 r 



J^ 



llJ 



COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 



113 



The swanherds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 

The shepherde lads I heard afarre, 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 

Till floating o'er the grassy sea 

Came downe that Ivyndly message free, 

The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky. 
And all along where Liudis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, '"And why should this thing be? 

What danger lowers by land or sea? 

They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

" For evil news from JNlablethorpe, 
Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe. 

They have not spared to wake the towne ; 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderb}" ' ? " 

I looked without, and lo I my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main : 
He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again, 
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 
(A sweeter woman ne'er drew l)reath 
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

"■ The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, 

The rising tide comes on apace, 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
" God save you, mother ! " straight he saith : 
" Where is rav wife. Elizabeth? " 



m 



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XJ 



114 



THE HIGH TWE ON THE 



" Good Sonne, where Lindis winds her wa^-, 

With her two bairns I marked her long ; 
And ere young bells beganne to play 

Afar 1 heard her milking song." 
He looked across the grassy lea, 
To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby ! " 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby ! " 

With that he cried and beat his breast ; 

Eor lo ! along the river's bed 
A miglit}' ej'gre reared his crest. 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with tlmnderous noises lond ; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed 
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; 
- Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout- 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave. 
The heart had hardly time to beat 

Before a shallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee. 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night, 

The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 

I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high- 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awsome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang "■ Enderby." 



-^ 



5' 5' 




COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 



115 



They rang the sailor kids to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And 1 — my soiine was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 

" O come in life, or come in death ! 

lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare 
The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
The pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass. 

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and mee : 
But each will mourn his own (she saith) ; 
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

1 shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore. 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " caUiug, 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
" Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
When the water winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver. 



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Ii6 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. * 






Shiver, quiver ; 


t 


L Stand beside the sobbing river, 


J L 






Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 


* 






To the sandy lonesome shore ; 








I shall never hear her calling. 








" Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 








Mellow, mellow ; 








Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 








Come uppe, Whitefoot, come ni)pe, Lightfoot ; 








Quit your pi[)es of parsley hollow. 








Hollow, hollow ; 








Come uppe, Lighfoot, rise and follow ; 








Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 








From your clovers lift the head : 








Come uppe. Jetty, follow, follow, 








Jetty, to the milking shed." 








"^ 

AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 








(THE parson's BROTUEl!. SISTER. AND TWO CUILOREN.) 








Preface. 








What wonder man should fail to stay 








A nursling wafted from above, 








The growth celestial come astray. 








That tender growth whose name is Love? 








It is as if high win<ls in heaven 








Had shaken the celestial trees. 








And to this earth below had given 








Some feathered seeds from one of these. 








perfect love that 'clureth long ! 








1^ Dear growth, that shaded by the palms. 
And breathed on by the angel's song. 


'[ 










Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms ! 






--- 


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M- 




AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 



1x7 



How great the task to guard thee here, 
Where wind is rough, and frost is keen, 

And all the ground with doubt and fear 
Is checivered birth and death between ! 

Space is against thee — it can part ; 

Time is against thee — it can chill ; 
Words — but they render half the heart; 

Deeds — they are poor to our rich will. 



Merton. Though she had loved me, I had never 

bound 
Her beauty to my darkness ; that had been 
Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near 
Into a face all shadow, than to stand 
Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards 
Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. 

I think so, and I loved her ; therefore I 

Have no complaint ; albeit she is not mine : 

And yet — and yet, withdrawing I would fain 

She would have pleaded duty — would have said 

" My father wills it ; " would have turned away, 

As lingering, or unwillingly ; for then 

She would have done no damage to the past : 

Now she has roughly used it — flung it down 

And brushed its bloom away. If she had said, 

'' vSir, I have promised ; therefore, lo ! my hand " — 

Would I have taken it? Ah, no! by all 

Most sacred, no I 

I would for my sole share 
Have taken first her recollected blush 
The day I won her ; next her shining tears — 
The tears of our long parting : and for all 
The rest — her cry, her bitter heartsick cry, 
That dav or night (I know not which it was, 



J[L 



w 



^ 



it8 afternoon at a PARSONAGE, 

The days being always night), that darkest night. 
Wlieu being led to her 1 heard her cry, 
'•O blind: blind: blind:" 

Go with thy chosen mate 
The fashion of thy going nearh' cured 
The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak 
That half my thoughts go after thee ; but not 
So weak that I desire to have it so. 

Jessie, seated at the pia)io^ sings. 

"When the dimpled water slippeth. 

Full of laughter, on its way. 
And her wing the wagtail dippeth, 

Running by the brink at play ; 
"When the poplar leaves atremble 

Turn their edges to tlie light. 
And the far-up clouds resemble 

Veils of gauze most clear and wliite ; 
And the sunbeams fall and flatter 

Woodland moss and branches brown, 
And the glossy finches chatter 

Up and down, up and down : 
Though the heart be not attending. 

Having music of her own. 
On the grass, through meadows wending, 

It is sweet to walk alone. 

When the falling -waters utter 

Something mournful on their way, 
And departing swallows flutter 

Taking leave of bank and brae ; 
When the chaffinch idly sitteth 

With her mate upon the sheaves. 
And the wistful robin flitteth 

Over beads of yellow leaves ; 
When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder 

Evil fate, float bv and frown. 



s^ 



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AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 



119 



And the listless wind doth wander 

Up and down, up and down : 
Though the heart be not attending, 

Having sorrows of her own, 
Through the fields and fallows wending, 

It is sad to walk alone. 

Merton. Blind ! blind ! blind ! 
Oh ! sitting in the dark for evermore. 
And doing nothing — putting out a hand 
To feel what lies about me, and to say 
Not " This is blue or red," but " This is cold. 
And this the sun is shining on, and this 
1 know not till they tell its name to me." 

that I might behold once more, my God ! 
The shining rulers of the night and day ; 
Or a star twinkling; or an almond-tree, 
Pink with her bloss'om and alive with bees, 
Standing against the azure ! O my sight ! 
Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells 

Of memory — that only lightsome place 
Where lingers yet the day spring of my youth : 
The years of mourning for thy death are long. 

Be kind, sweet memory ! O desert me not ! 
For oft thou show'st me lucent opal seas. 
Fringed with their cocoa-palms, and dwarf red crags, 
Whereon the placid moon doth " rest her chin ; " 
For oft by favor of thy visitiugs 

1 feel the dimness of an Indian night. 
And lo ! the sun is coming. Red as rust 
Between the latticed blind his presence burns, 
A ruby ladder running up the wall ; 

And all the dust, printed with pigeons' feet, 
Is reddened, and the crows that stalk anear 



^-. 



«— t- 




I20 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Begin to trail for heat their glossy wings, 

Aud the red flowers give back at once the dew, 

For night is gone, and day is born so fast, 

And is so strong, that, huddled as in flight 

The fleeting darkness paleth to a shade. 

And while she calls to sleep and dreams •■ Come on," 

Suddenly waked, tlie sleepers rub their eyes, 

Which liaving opened, lo ! she is no more. 

O miser}' and mourning ! I have felt — 
Yes, I have felt like some deserted world 
That God had done with, and had cast aside 
To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space. 
He never looking on it any more — 
Uutilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired. 
Nor lighted on by angels in their flight 
From heaven to happier planets, and the race 
That once had dwelt on it withdrawn or dead. 
Could such a world have hope^ that some blest day 
God would remember her, and fashion her 
Anew ? 

Jessie. What, dearest? Did you speak to me? 

Child. I think he spoke to us. 

M. No, little elves, 

You were so quiet that I half forgot 
Your neighborhood. What are you doing there? 

F. They sit together on the window-mat 
Nursing their dolls. 

C. Yes, Uncle, our new dolls — 
Our best dolls, that you gave us. 

M. Did you say 

The afternoon was bright? 

F. Yes, bright indeed ! 

The sun is on the plane-tree, aud it flames 
All I'ed and orange. 



M 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 121 

C. I can see my father — 

Look ! look ! the leaves are falling on his gown. 

M. Where? 

C. In tlie churchyard, Uncle — he is gone; 

He passed behind the tower. 

M. I heard a bell : 

There is a funeral, then, behind the church. 

2d Cliild. Are the trees sorry when their leaves 
drop off? 

\st Child. You talk such silly words; — no, not 
at all. 
There goes another leaf. 

2d Cliild. I did not see. [hills, 

\st Child. Look ! on the grass, between the little 
Just where they planted Amy. 

F. Amy died — 

Dear little Amy ! when you talk of her, 
Say, she is gone to heaven. ' 

2d Child. They planted her — 

Will she come up next year? 

1st Child. No, not so soon ; 

But some day God will call her to come up. 
And then she will. Papa knows every thing — 
He said she would before he planted her. 

2d Child. It was at night she went to heaven. 
Last night 
We saw a star before we went to bed. 

1st Child. Yes, Uncle, did you know? 
A large briglit star, 
And at her side she had some little ones — 
Some young ones. 

M. Young ones ! no, my little maid. 
Those stars are very old. 

1st Child. ' What! all of them? 

M. Yes. 

1st Child. Older than our father? 



A 



J 1 'c I •> •! - -| — g 

4h J n — ^ " ' < ■ ^rT 

ilr 

122 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

31. Older, far. 

2d Child. The}' must be tired of sbiiiiug there so 
long. 
Perhaps they wish they might come down. 

F. Perhaps ! 

Dear children, talk of what you understand. 
Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up 
That last night's wind has loosened. 

Ist Child. May we help? 

Aunt, may we help to nail them ! 

F. We shall see. 

Go, find and bring the hammer, and some shreds. 

\_Stei)s outside the icindoiv, lifts a bnutch and sings.'] 

.Should I change my allegiance for rancor 

If fortune changes her side? 
Or should I, like a vessel at anchor. 

Turn with the turn of the tide? 
Lift ! O lift, thou lowering sky ; 

An thou wilt, thy gloom forego ! 
An thou wilt not, he and I 

Need not part for drifts of snow. 

31. l^trithiii]. Lift I no. thou lowering sky, thou 
wilt not lift — 
Thy motto readeth, ''Never." 

Children. Here they are ! 

Here are the nails ! and may we help ? 

F. You shall, 

If I should want help. 

\st Child. Will you want it then? 
Please want it — we like nailing. 

•2d Child. Yes, we do. 

F. It seems I ouglit to want it ; hold the bough. 
And each mav nail in tui-n. 



^- 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 123 

Like a daisy I was, near Iiiin growing : 

Must I move because favors flag, 
And be like a brown wall-flower blowing 

Far out of reach in a crag ? 
Lift ! O lift, thou lowering sky ; 

An thou canst, thy blue regain ! 
And thou canst not, he and I 

Need not part for drops of rain. 

\st, Child. Now, have we nailed enough? 

J. [trains the creepers]. Yes, you may go ; 
But do not play too near the churchyard [jath. 

M. [within'] . Even misfortune does not strike so 
near 
As my dependence. O, in youth ud strength 
To sit a timid coward in the dark. 
And feel before I set a cautious step ! 
It is so very dark, so far more dark 
Than any night that da^- comes after — night 
In which there would be stars, or else at least 
The silvered portion of a sombre cloud 
Through which the moon is plunging. 

J. leyitering]. Merton ! 

M. Yes. 

J. Dear Merton, did you know that I could hear? 

3T. No : e'en my solitude is not mine now. 
And if I be alone is ofttimes doubt. 
Alas ! far more than eyesight have I lost ; 
For manly courage drifteth after it — 
E'en as a splintered spar would drift away 
From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I complain — 
Like a weak ailing woman I complain. 

J. For the first time. 

V- I cannot bear the dark. 

,/. JNIy brother ! you do bear it — bear it well — 
Have l)()rne it twelve lons" months, and not complaine';''. 







-[-^ 



124 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Comfort your heart with music : all the air 

Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands. 

You like to feel them on you. Come and play. 

M. My fate, my fate, is lonely ! 

,/. So it is — 

I know it is. 

M. And pity breaks my heart. 

J. Does it, dear Merton? 

M. Yes, I say it does. 

What ! do you think I am so dull (^f ear 
That I can mark no changes in the tones 
That reach me ? Once I liked not girlish pride 
And that coy quiet, chary of reply, 
That held me distant : now the sweetest lips 
Open to entertain me — fairest hands 
Are proffered me to guide. 

J, That is not well? 

M. No : give me coldness, pride, or still disdain. 
Gentle withdrawal. Give me anything 
But this — a fearless, sweet, confiding ease, 
AVhereof I ma3' expect, I may exact, 
Considerate care, and have it — gentle speech, 
And have it. Give me anything but this ! 
For they who give it, give it in the faith 
That I will not misdeem them, and forget 
My doom so far as to perceive thereby 
Hope of a wife. They make this thought too plain : 
They wound me — O they cut me to the heart ! 
When have I said to any one of them, 
" I am a blind and desolate man ; — come here, 
I pray you — be as eyes to me?" When said, 
Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet 
To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands 
That clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate. 
And who will ever lend her delicate aid 
To guide me, dark incumbrance that I am ! — 



llJ 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 



125 



When liave I said to her, " Comfortiug voice, 
Belonging to a face unknown, I pray 
Be my wife's voice?" 

J. Never, uiv brother — no, 

You never have ! 

M. What could she think of me 

If I forgot myself so far? or what 
Could she reply ? 

J. You ask not as men ask 

Who care for an opinion, else, perhaps. 
Although I am not sure — although, perhaps, 
I have no right to give one — I should say 
She would reply, " I will ! " 



Aftertliouglit. 

Man dwells apart, though not alone, 
He walks among his peers unread ; 

The best of thoughts which he hath known 
For lack of listeners are not said. 

Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles. 
He saith, " They dwell not lone like men." 

Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles 
Flash far be^oud each other's ken. 

He looks on God's eternal suns 

That sprinkle the celestial blue. 
And saith, "Ah! happy shining ones, 

I would that men were grouped like you ! " 

Yet this is sure : the loveliest star 
That clustered with its peers we see. 

Only because from us so far 

Doth near its fellows seem to be. 



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126 



SOJVGS OF SEVEAT. 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 

SEVEN TIMES f)XE. EXULTATION. 

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, 

There's no rain left in heaven : 
I've said my " seven times " over and over, 

Seven times one are seven. 

I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done ; 
The lambs play always, they know no better ; 

They are only one times one. 

moon ! in the night I have seen yon sailing 
And shining so ronnd and low : 

You were bright ! ah, bright ! but your light is fail- 
ing, — 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven 
That God has hidden your face? 

1 hope if you have you will soon be forgiven. 
And shine again in your ^ilace. 

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow. 

You've powdered your legs with gold ! 
O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow. 

Give me your money to hold ! 

O columbine, open your folded wrapper. 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell I 

cuckoopint. toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green l»ell ! 

And show me your nest with the young ones in it ; 
I will not steal them away ; 

1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet — 

I am seven times one to-dav. 



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SONGS OF seven: 



127 



SEVEN TIMES TWO. KOMANCE. 

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, 

How many soever they be. 
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges 

Come over, come over to me. 

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling 

No magical sense conveys, 
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling 

The fortune of future days. 

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheeiily, 

While a boy listened alone ; 
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily 

All by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days are over,. 

And mine, they are yet to be ; 
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover 

You leave the story to me. 

Tlie foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather 

Preparing her hoods of snow ; 
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather : 

O, children take long to grow. 

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, 

' Nor long summer bide so late ; 
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster. 
For some things are ill to wait. 

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover. 

While dear hands are laid on my head ; 
" The child is a woman, the book may close over. 

For all the lessons are said." 



'W 



128 



SOJVGS OF SEVEN. 



1 wait for inv story — the birds ciiiinot sing it. 

Not one, as lie sits on the tree ; 
The liells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it ! 

Nucli as I wisli it to be. 



^ 



SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. 

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover. 

Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; 
'•'■ Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one 
lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush ! O, sweet nightingale, 
wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near, 
For my love he is late ! 

"■• The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 

A cluster of stars hangs like friiit in tlie tree, 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : 
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou 
see? 
Let the star-clusters grow, 
Let the sweet waters flow. 
And cross quickly to me. 

•• You night moths that hover where honey brims 
over 
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
Vou glowworms, shine out, and the patliway discover 
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. 
Ah, my sailor, make haste. 
For the time runs to waste, 
And my love lieth deep — 

" Too deei) for swift telling ; and yet, my one lover, 
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." 
I)y the sycamore passed he, and through the white 
clover. 






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SONGS OF SEVEN. 



129 



Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took 
flight ; 
But I'll love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before, 
Re the days dark or bright. 

SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATEKNITY. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 

When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, 
And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small ! 

Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses 
Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
Sing them a song of tlie [jretty hedge sparrow, 
That loved her brown little ones, loved them full 
fain : 
Sing, " Heart, thou art wide though the house be 
but narrow " — 
Sing once, and sing it again. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Sweet wagging cowslips tliey bend and they bow ; 
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters. 

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. 
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, 

Maybe he thinks on you now ! 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups. 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 

A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, 

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall ! 

Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its meas- 
ure, '■''" 
God that is over us all ! 



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130 SONGS OF seven: 


J u 


SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. ^ ^ 




I sleep and rest, my lieart makes moan 

Before I am well awake ; 
" Let me bleed ! let me alone, 

Since I must not break ! " 




For children wake, tbough fathers sleep 
With a stone at foot and head : 

sleepless God, forever keep. 
Keep both living and dead ! 




I lift mine eyes, and what to see 
And a world happy and fair ! 

I have not wished it to mourn with me — 
Comfort is not there. 




what anear but golden brooms. 
But a waste of reedy rills ! 

what afar but the fine glooms 
On the rare blue hills ! 




I shall not die, but live forlore — 

How bitter it is to part ! 
to meet thee, my love, once more ! 




m\- heart, my heart ! 




No more to hear, no more to see ! 

that an echo might wake 
And waft one note of tliy psalm to me 

Ere my heart-striugs break ! 


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I should know it liow faint soe'er, 

And with angel voices blent ; ^ ^ 
once to feel thy spirit anear ; 

I could be content ! 




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SOIVGS OF SEVEN. 



^31 



Or once between the gates of gold, 
While an entering angel trod, 

Bat once — thee sitting to behold 
On the hills of God ! 



SEVEX TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 

To bear, to nurse, to rear. 

To watch, and then to lose : 
To see my bright ones disappear, 

Drawn up like morning dews — 
To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose : 
This have I done when God drew near 

Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

And with thy lord depart 
In tears that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart. — 
To hear, to heed, to wed. 

This while thou didst I smiled, 
For now it was not God who said, 

" Mother, give me thy child." 

O fond, O fool, and blind ! 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But when a man lilie grace would find, 

My soul put by her fears — 
O fond, O fool, and blind ! 

God guards in happier spheres ; 
That man will guard Avliere he did bind 

Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 
Fair lot that maidens choose. 

Thy mother's tenderest words are said, 
Thv face no more she views ; 



132 



SONGS OF SEVEiV. 



Thy mother's lot, my dear, 
She doth in nought accuse ; 

Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 
To love — and thou to lose. 



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SEVKN TIMKS SKVEN. I,ON(iI\(i KOK IIOMK. 



A song of a boat : — 
There was once a boat on a billow : 
Lightly she i-ocked to her port remote, 
And the foam was white in her wake like snow. 
And lier frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, 
And bent like a wand of willow. 



I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

Went curtseying over the billow, 
I marked her course till a dancing mote 
She faded out on the moonlit foam. 
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ; 
And my thoughts all day were about the boat 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 




I pray yon hear my song of a boat. 

For it is but short : — 
INIy boat you shall find none fairer alloat, 

In river or port. 
Long I looked out for the lad siie bore, 

On the open desolate sea. 
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shoi\', 

For he came not back to me — 

Ah me ! 







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"Aiijlh l.iiiM' I • lilt 111 III I w.iki lik( ^Tinw, 
And her frail niasl Ijowctl when tlic breeze would blow." — Pasre I V2. 



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SONGS OF SJ-IVEN. 



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133 



A song of ii nest : — 
There was once 11 ncsl, in :i hollow : 
Down in llie mosses and knot-grass priissed, 
Soft :iii(l vv;uiii, and lull to the brim — 
Vetches h^anisd ovc-r it pnrple and dim, 
Witli buttercup buds to follow. 



I pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long : — 
You shall U(!vcr light, in ;i, summer cpicst, 

'I'Ik! Itushcs among — • 
Sii;dl never light on a prouchir- sitter, 

A fairer lUistful, nor ever kn(»w 
A softer sound than their tender twitter, 

That, vviiid-lik(! did come and go. 

VI. 

I had a. n(!stful once of my own. 

Ah, happy, hiippy I ! 
Right dearly I lovecl them : but when tlx^y were 
grown 

I'liey sprend oul their wings t,o liy — 
O, one after one tlu;y Hew away 

Far Uj) to the lusavenly blue, 
To tiu! bett(!r country, the upper day, 

And — 1 wish I was troiuir too. 



I pray you, what is the nest to me. 

My emi)ty n(!st? 
And what is tlic! shore; where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the w(!st? 
Can I call that home wiieri; I anciior yet. 

Though ray good m.-iu has saikid? 
Can I call that Iiouk; wimre my nest was set. 

Now all its liop(! hath failed? 




134 



A COTTAGE IX A CHINE. 



Nay, but the port where my sailor went. 

And tlie land where my nestlings be : 
There is the home where my thoughts are sent. 

The only home for me — • 

Ah me ! 



A COTTAGE IX A CHINE. 

"We reached the place by night, 

^ And heard the waves breaking : 
They came to meet us with candles alight 

To show the path we were taking. 
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white 

AYith tufted flowers down shaking. 

With head beneath her wing, 

A little wren was sleeping — 
So near, I had found it an easy thing 

To steal her for my keeping 
From the myrtle bough that with easy swing 

Across the path was sweeping. 

Down rocky steps rough-hewed, 

Where cup-mosses flowered. 
And under the trees, all twisted and rude, 

Wherewith the dell was dowered, 
They led us, where deep in its solitude 

Lay the cottage, leaf -embowered. 

The thatch was all bespread 

With climbing passion flowers ; 
They wei'e wet, and glistened with rain-droi)S, shed 

That day in genial showers. 
" Was never a sweeter nest," we said, 

" Than this little nest of ours." 



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A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 



135 



We laid us down to sleep : 

But as for me — waking, 
I marked the plunge of the muffled deep 

On its sandy reaches breaking ; 
For heart-jo3'ance doth sometimes keep 

From slumber, like heart-aching. 

And I was glad that night. 

With no reason ready, 
To give my own heart for its deep delight, 

That flowed like some tidal eddy, 
Or shone like a star that was risins; bright 

With comforting radiance stead}'. 

But on a sudden — hark ! 

Music struck asunder 
Tliose meshes of bliss, and I wept in the dark, 

So sweet was the unseen wonder ; 
So swiftl}^ it touched, as if struck at a mark. 

The trouble that joy kept under. 

I rose — the moon outshone : 

I saw the sea heaving. 
And a little vessel sailing alone. 

The small crisp wavelet cleaving ; 
'Twas she as she sailed to her port unknown — 

Was that track of sweetness leaving. 

AVe know they music made 

In heaven, ere man's creation ; 
But when God threw it down to us that strayed, 

It dropt with lamentation, 
And ever since doth its sweetness shade 

With sighs for its first station. 

Its joy suggests regret — 

Its most for more is yearning ; 
And it brino;s to the soul that its voice hath met 



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136 .-/ COTTAGE LV A CHIXE. 

No rest that eadeuce leaniiug. 
But a couseious part iu the sighs that fret 
Its nature for retiiruiug. 

Eve. sweet P^ve I inethought 
When sometimes comfort wiimiug. 

As she watched the first children's tender sport, 

Sole joy boru since her sinning. 
If a bird anear them sang, it brought 

The pang as at beginning. 

While swam the unshed tear. 

Her prattlers, little heeding, 
AVould murmur, '• This bird, with its carol clear, 

When the red clay was kueaden. 
And God made Adam our father dear. 

Sang to him thus in Eden." 

The moon went iu — the sky 
And earth and sea hiding ; 

1 laid me down, with the yearning sigh 

Of that strain in my heart abiding ; 
I slept, and the bark that had sailed so nigh 
In my dream was ever gliding. 

I slept, but waked amazed. 

With sudden noise frighted. 
And voices without, and a flash that dazed 

My eyes from candles lighted. 
"Ah ! surely." raethought. ''by these shouts upraised 

Some traA-ellers are benighted." 

A voice was at my side — 

•• Waken, madam, waken ! 
The long prayed-for ship at her anchor doth ride. 

Let the child from its rest be taken. 
For the captain doth weary for babe and for bride — 

Waken, madam, waken I 



^ 




A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 



137 



" The home you lelt but late, 

He speeds to it hght-hearted ; 
By the wires he sent this news, and straiglit 

To you with it they started." 
O joy for a yearning heart too great, 

O luiion for the parted ! 

We rose up in tlie night. 

The nioruing star was shining ; 
We carried the child in its slumber light 

Out by the myrtles twining : 
Orion over the sea hung bright. 

And glorious in declining. 

Mother, to meet her son. 

Smiled first, then wept the rather ; 
And wife, to bind up those linl<.s undone. 

And cherished words to gather. 
And to show the face of her little one, 

That had never seen its father. 

That cottage in a chine. 

We were not to behold it ; 
But there may the purest of sunbeams shine. 

May freshest flowers enfold it, 
For the sake of the news which our hearts must twine 

With the bower where we were told it ! 

Now oft, left alone again. 

Sit motiier and sit daughter, 
And bless the good ship that sailed over the main. 

And the favoring winds that brought her ; 
While still some new beauty they fable and feign 

For the cottaoe bv the water. 




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138 



PERSEPHONE. 



PERSEPHONE. 

[Written for The Portfolio Society, January, 1862.] 
Subject (jiven — " Liyht and Shade.'' 

She stepped upon Sicilian gi-iss, 
Demeter's tUiughter fre.sli and fair, 

A child of light, a radiant lass, 

And gamesome as the morning air. 

The daffodils were fair to see. 

They nodded lightly on tlie lea, 

Persephone — I'ersephone ! 

Lo ! one she marked of rarer growth 

Than orchis or anemone ; 
For it the maiilen left them both. 

And parted from her company. 
Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still, 
And stooped to gather by tlie rill 
The daffodil, the daft'odif. 

AVhat ailed the meadow that it shook? 

What ailed the air of Sicily? 
She wondered by the brattling brook, 

And trembled with the trembling lea. 
"The coal-black horses rise — they rise: 
O mother, mother ! " low she cries — 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

"O light, light, light !" she cries. '' farewell; 

The coal-black hoi-ses wait for me. 
O shade of shades, where 1 must dwell, 

Demeter, mother, far from thee ! 
Ah, fated doom that I fulfil ! 
Ah. fateful (lower beside the rill! 
The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 



PERSEPHONE. 



What ails lier tliat she comes uot home? 

Demeter seeks her far and wide, 
And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam 

From many a morn till eventide. 
" My life, immortal though it be, 
Is nought," slie cries, " lor want of thee, 
Persephone — Persephone ! 
" Meadows of Enna, let the rain 

No longer drop to feed your rills, 
Nor dew refresh the fields again. 

With all their nodding daffodils ! 
Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea, 
Where thou, dear heart, wert reft from me- 
Persephone — Persephone ! " 



She reigns upon her dusky throne, 
'Mid shades of heroes dread to see ; 

Among the dead she breathes alone, 
Pei'sephone — Persephone ! 

Or seated on the Elysian'hill 

She dreams of earthly daylight still. 

And murmurs of the daffodil. 

A voice in Hades soundeth clear, 
The shadows moiuui and flit below ; 

It cries — "Thou Lord of Hades, hear. 
And let Demeter's daughter go. 

The tender corn upon the lea 

Droops in her goddess gloom when she 

Cries for her lost Persephone. 

" From land to land she raging flies. 
The green fruit falleth in her wake. 

And harvest fields beneath her eyes 
To earth the grain unripened shake. 

Arise, and set the maiden free ; 

Wh}^ should the world such sorrow dree 

By reason of Persephone?" 



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05. 



140 



PERSEPHONE. 



He takes the cleft poinegraiuite seeds : 

'' Love, eat with me this parting day ; " 
Then bids them fetcli the coal-black steeds — 

" Demeter's daughter, wouldst away?" 
The gates of Hades set her free ; 
" She will return full soon," said he — 
'•'• My wife, my wife Perseplione." 
Low laughs the dark king on his throne — 

" I gave lier of pomegranate seeds." 
Demeter's daughter stands alone 

Upon the fair Eleusian meads. 
Her mother meets her. " Hail," saith she ; 
'' And doth our daylight dazzle thee. 
My love, my child Persephone? 
'^ What moved thee, daughter, to forsake 

Thy fellow-maids that fatal morn, 
And give thy dark lord the power to take 

Tliee living to his realm forlorn?" 
Her lips reply without her will. 
As on(! addressed who sluml)ereth still — 
" The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 

Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, 
And sunny wafts that round her stir, 

Her cheek upon her mother's breast — 
Demeter's kisses comfort her. 

Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she 

Who stepped so lightly on the lea — 

Persephone, Persephone? 

When, in her destined course, the moon 
Meets the deep shadow of this world, 

And lal)oring on doth seem to swoon 

Through awful wastes of dimness whirled 

Emerged at length, no trace hath she 

Of that dark hour of destiny. 

Still silvery sweet — Persephone. 



A SEA SONG. 



14): 



The greater world ma}' near the less, 

And draw it tlirough her weltering shade. 

But not one biding trace ini[)ress 
Of all the darkness that she made ; 

The greater soul that draweth thee 

Hath left his shadow plain to see 

On thy dear face, Persephone ! 

Denieter sighs, but sure 'tis well 
The wife should love her destiny : 

They part, and yet, as legends tell, 
She mourns her lost Persephone ; 

While chant the maids of Enna still — 

" O fateful flower beside the rill — 

The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 



A SEA SONG. 

Old Albion sat on a crag of late, 
And sung out — *■' Aho}' ! ahoy ! 
Long life to the captain, good luck to the mate, 
And this to my sailor boy ! 
Come over, come home. 
Through the salt foam, 
My sailor, my sailor boy ! 

" Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, 

A crown for my sailor's head. 
And all for the worth of a widowed queen. 
And the love of the noble dead. 
And the fear and fame 
Of the island's name 
Where my boy was born and bred. 

" Content thee, content thee, let it alone, 
Thou marked for a choice so rare : 



5 



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142 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



Though treaties be treaties, never a throne 
Was proffered for cause as fair. 
Yet come to me home, 
Tliroiigh the salt sea foam, 
For the Greek must ask elsewhere. 

" 'Tis a pity, m}' sailor, hut who can tell? 

Many lands they look to me ; 
One of these might be wanting a Prince as well, 
But that's as hereafter may be." 
She raised her white head 
And laughed ; and she said, 
" That's as hereafter may be." 



BROTHERS, AXD A SERMON. 

It was a village built in a green rent, 

Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay. 

A reef of level rock runs out to sea. 
And you may lie on it and look sheer down. 
Just where the " Grace of Sunderland" was lost. 
And see the elastic banners of the dulse 
Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep 
Across the laver, and the mackerel shoot 
Over and under it, like silver boats 
Turning at will and plying under water. 

There on that reef we lay upon our breasts. 
My brother and I, and half the village lads. 
For an old fisherman had called to us [tiiey ? " 

With '' Sirs, the syle be come." "And what are 
My brotlier said. " Good lack ! " the old man cried, 
And shook his head ; ''to think you gentlefolk 
Should ask what syle be ! Look you ; I can't say 
What svle be called in your fine dictionaries. 



\ 



M. 



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BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



143 



Nor what name God Almighty calls them b}^ 
When their food's ready and He sends them south : 
But our folk call them syle, and nought but syle, 
And when tliey're grown, why then we call them 

herring. 
I tell 3'OU, Sir, the water is as full 
Of them as pastures be of blades of grass ; 
You'll draw a score out in a landing net. 
And none of them be longer than a pin. 

" S^de ! ay, indeed, we should be badl}^ off, 

I reckon, and so would God Almighty's gulls," 

He grumbled on in his quaint piety, 

" And all His other birds, if He should say 

I will not drive my syle into the south ; 

The fisher folk may do without my syle. 

And do without the shoal of fish it draws 

To follow and feed on it." 

This said, we made 
Our peace with him by means of two small coins, 
And down we rau and lay upon the reef. 
And saw the swimming infants, emerald green, 
In separate shoals, the scarcely turning ebb 
Bringing them in ; while sleek, and not intent 
On chase, but taking that which came to hand, 
The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam 
Between ; and settling on the polished sea, 
A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly 
In social rings, and twittered while the}' fed. 
The village dogs and ours, elate and brave, 
Lay looking over, barking at the fish ; 
Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait. 
And when they heaved and tlonndered on the rock, 
In beauteous misery, a sudden pat 
Some shaggy pup would deal, then back away. 
At distance e3"e them with sagacious doubt, 
And shrink half frighted from the slippery things. 



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144 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



Aud so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow 
Rose high enough to drive us from the reef; 
The fisher kids went home across the sand ; 
We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more, 
Talking and looking down. It was not talk 
Of much significance, except for this — 
That we had more in common than of old. 
For both were tired, I with overwork, 
He with inaction ; 1 was glad at heart 
To rest, and he was glad to have an ear 
That he could grumble to, and half in jest 
Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs. 
And the misfortime of a good estate — 
Misfortune that was sure to pull him down, 
Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man : 
Indeed he felt himself deteriorate 
Already. Thereupon he sent down showers 
Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words, 
And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily 
Into the seething wave. And as for me, 
I railed at him and at ingratitude, 
While rifling of the basket he had slung 
Across his shoulders ; then with right good will 
We fell to work, aud feasted like the gods. 
Like laborers, or like eager workhouse folk 
At Yuletide dinner ; or, to say the whole 
At once, like tired, hungry, healthy youth. 
Until the meal being o'er, the tilted flask 
Drained of its latest drop, the meat and bre^d 
And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs 
Mumbling the bones, this elder brother of mine- 
This man that never felt an ache or pain 
In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew 
The trouble of an unforgiven grudge, 
The sting of a regretted meanness, nor 
The desperate struggle of the unendowed 
For place and for possession- — he began 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



145 



To sing a rhyme tliat he himself had wrought ; 

Sending it out with cogitative pause, 

As if the scene where he had shaped it first 

Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it 

Thus unaware, lie was of doubtful mind 

Whether his dignity it well beseemed 

To sing of pretty maiden : 

Goldilocks sat on the grass, 
Tying up of posies rare ; 

Hardly could a sunbeam pass 

Through the cloud that was her hair. 

Purple orchis lasteth long. 

Primrose flowers are pale and clear ; 

O the maiden sang a song- 
It would do you good to hear ! 

Sad before her leaned the boy, 

" Goldilocks that 1 love well, 
Happy creature fair and coy. 

Think o' me. Sweet Amabel," 
Goldilocks she shook apart, 

Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes ; 
Like a blossom on her heart 

Opened out her first surprise. 

As a gloriole sign o' grace, 

Goldilocks, ah, fall and flow 
On the blooming childlike face, 

Dimple, dimple, come and go. 
Give her time ; on grass and sky 

Let her gaze if she be fain : 
As they looked ere he drew nigh, 

They will never look again. 

Ah ! the playtime she has known. 
While her goldilocks grew long. 
Is it like a nestling flown, 




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146 



BROTHERS, AiVD A SERMON. 



Childhood over hke a song ? 
Yes, the boy may clear his brow, 

Though she thinks to say liim nay, 
AVheu she sighs. •' 1 cannot now — 

Come again some other day." 

" Hold there '. " he cried, half angry with himself ; 

'^ That ending goes amiss : " then turned again 

To the old argument that we had held — 

'' Now look you ! " said my brother, "■ You may talk 

Till, weary of the talk, I answer 'Ay. 

There's reason in your words ; ' and you may talk 

Till I go on to say, ' This should be so ; ' 

And you may talk till I shall further own 

'■ It is so ; yes, I am a lucky dog ! ' 

Yet not the less shall I next morning wake. 

And with a natural and fervent sigh. 

Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim 

' What an unlucky dog I am ! ' " And here 

He broke into a laugh. '^ But as for you — 

You : on all hands you have the best of me ; 

Men have not robbed you of your birthright — work, 

Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field. 

Nor wedcled heiresses against their will. 

Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor overreached. 

That you might drone a useless life away 

'Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms 

And half a dozen bogs." 

'' O rare ! " I cried ; 

" His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent : 

Now we behold how far bad actions reach I 

Because five hundred years ago a Knight 

Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin's yard ; 

Because three hundred years ago a squire — 

Against her will, and for her fair estate — 

Married a very ugly, red-haired maid. 

The blest inheritor of all their pelf, 



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J3R0THEKS, AND A SERMON. 



147 



While in tlie full enjoyment of the same, 

Sighs on his own confession eveiy dav. 

He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, 

Nor eats of beef but thinking on that wrong ; 

Then, ^-et the more to be revenged on them, 

And shame their ancient pride, if they should know, 

Works hard as any horse for his degree, 

And takes to writing verses." 

"Ay," he said, 
Half laughing at himself. " Yet you and I, 
But for those tresses which enrich us yet 
With somewhat of the hue that partial fame 
Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs. 
But when it flames round brows of younger sons, 
Just red — -mere red ; why, but for this, I say, 
And but for selfish getting of the land. 
And beggarly entailing it, we two, 
To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well read. 
We might have been two horny-handed boors — 
Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors — 
Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme. 
Or soiling onr dull souls and consciences 
With plans for pilfering a cottage roost. 

' ' AVhat chorus ! are you dumb ? you should have 

cried, 
' So good comes out of evil ; ' " and with that. 
As if all pauses it was natural 
To seize for songs, his voice broke out again: 

Coo, dove, to thy unmarried mate — 

She has two warm eggs in her nest : 
Tell her the hours are few to wait 

Ere life shall dawn on their rest ; 
And thy young shall peck at the shells, elate 

With a dream of her broodinor breast. 




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148 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



Coo. dove, for she counts the hours, 

Her fair wings ache for tliglit : 
By day the apple has grown in the flowers, 

And the moon has grown by night. 
And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers. 

Yet they will not seek the light. 

Coo, dove ; but what of the sky ? 

And what if the storm-wind swell, 
And the reeling branch come down from on high 

To the grass where daisies dwell. 
And the brood beloved should with them lie 

Or ever they break the shell? 

Coo, dove ; and yet black clouds lower, 

Like fate, on the far-off sea : 
Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower, 

As on wings of destiny. 
Ah, what if the}' break in an evil hour. 

As they broke over miue and me? 

What next? — we started like to girls, for lo ! 
The creaking voice, more harsh than rust}' crane, 
Of one who stooped behind us. cried aloud. 
*■' Good lack ! how sweet the gentleman does sing — 
So loud and sweet, 'tis like to s[)lit his throat. 
Why, Mike's a child to him, a two-years child — 
A Chrisom child." 

" Who's Mike? " my brother growled 

A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman — 

'' Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no more ; 

But he can sing, when he takes on to sing, 

So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire 

But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold, 

I'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate, 

As we were shoving off the mackerel boats. 

Said he, ' I'll wager that's the sort o' song 

They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea.' " 



3 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON: 



149 



" There, fisherman," quoth I, '^ he showed his wit. 
Your mate ; he marked tlie sound of savage war — 
Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells. 
And ' murderous messages,' delivered by 
Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men." 

"Ay, ay, Sir ! " quoth the fisherman. " Have don'„ !" 
My brother. And I — "The gift belongs to few 
Of sending farther than the words can reach 
Their spirit and expression ; " still — " Have doae ! " 
He cried ; and then " I rolled the rubbish out 
More loudly than the meaning warranted. 
To air my lungs — -I thought not on the words." 

Then said the fisherman, who missed the point, • 
" So Mike rolls out the psalm ; you'll hear him, Sir. 
Please God you live till Sunday." 

^ ' Even so : 
And you, too, fisherman ; for here, they say, 
You all are church-goers." 

" Surely, Sir," quoth he, 
Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head 
And wrinkled face ; then sitting by us said. 
As one that utters with a quiet mind 
Unchallenged truth — " 'Tis lucky for the boats." 

The boats ! 'tis lucky for the boats ! Our eyes 
Were drawn to him as either fain would say. 
What ! do they send the psalm up in the spire, 
And pray because 'tis lucky for the boats ? 
But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled man. 
That all his life had been a church-goer. 
Familiar with celestial cadences. 
Informed of all he could receive, and sure 
Of all he undei-stood — lie sat content. 
And we kept silence. In his reverend face 



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150 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



There wa.s a simpleness we could not sound ; 
Much truth had passed him overhead ; some error 
He had trod under foot ; — God comfort him ! 
He could not learn of us, for we were young 
And he was old, and so we gave it up ; 
And the sun went into the west, and down 
Upon the water stooped an orange cloud. 
And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad 
To w'ear its colors ; and the sultry air 
Wei' it out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships 
Wit'i tliymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass: 
It ■took moreover music, for across 
Tl>e heather belt and over pasture land 
Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell, 
Aiid parted time into divisions rare, 
Whereof each morsel brought its own delight. 

" They ring for service," quoth the fisherman ; 
' Our parson preaches in the church to-night." 

>•' And do the people go? " my brother asked. 

"Ay, Sir; they count it nu'an to stay away, 
He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man. 
Our parson ; half a head above us all." 

" That's a great gift, and notable," said I. 

'•'' Ay, Sir ; and when he was a younger man 

He went out in the life-boat very oft, 

Befoi'e the ' Grace of Sunderland' was wreclced. 

He's never been his own man since that hour ; 

For there were thirty men aboard of her, 

xVnigh as close as you are now to me. 

And ne'er a one was saved. 

They're lying now, 
With two small childron, in a row : the church 
And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few 
Have anv names. 



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BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



151 



She bumped upon the reef ; 
Our parson, my young son, and several more 
Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, 
Aud crept along to her ; their mates ashore 
Ready to haul them in. Tlie gale was high. 
The sea was all a boiliug, seething froth. 
And God Almighty's guns were going off, 
And the land trembled. 

" "When she took the ground. 
She went to pieces like a lock of hay 
Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that, 
The captain reeled on deck with two small things, 
One in each arm — his little lad and lass. 
Their hair was long, and blew before his face. 
Or else we thought he had been saved ; he fell. 
But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls ! 
The breakers licked them off ; and some were crushed, 
Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, 
The dear breath beaten out of them : not oue 
Jumped from the wreck upon tlie reef to catch 
The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back 
With eyes wide open. But the captain lay 
And clung — the only man alive. They prayed — 
' For God's sake, captain, tlirow the children here ! ' 
'Throw them !' our parson cried ; and then she struck : 
And he threw one, a pretty two-years child ; 
But the gale dashed him ou the slippery vero-e. 
And down he went. They sa^- they heard him cry. 

'• Then he rose up and took the other one. 

And all our men reached out their hungry arms, 

And cried out, ' Throw her, throw her ! ' and he did ; 

He threw her right against the parson's breast, 

And all at once a sea broke over them. 

And they that saw it from the shore have said 

It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it. 



152 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



Just as a woman might the himp of salt 
Tliat 'twixt her hands into the kneading-ptvu 
She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. 

" We hauled our men in : two of them were dead — 
The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down ; 
Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave 
Had torn away the prett}', pretty lamb ; 
We often see him stand beside her grave : 
But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his. 

'' 1 ask your pardon, Sirs ; I i)rate and prate, 

And never have I said what brought me here. 

Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, 

I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine." 

" Ay, that was what we wanted," we replied ; 

" A boat, Ills boat ; " and off he went, well pleased. 

We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky- 
Flushing our faces), and went sauntering on, 
And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. 
And up and down among the heather beds, 
And up and down between the sheaves, we sped. 
Doubling and winding ; for a long ravine 
Ran up into the land and cut us off. 
Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds. 
And rent with many a crevice, where the wind 
Had laid up drifts of empty egg-shells, swept 
From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots. 

So as it chanced we lighted on a path 
That led into a nutwood ; and our talk 
Was louder than beseemed, if we had known. 
With argument and laugiiter ; for the path. 
As we sped onward, took a sudden turn 
Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass. 
And close upon a porch, and face to face 
Within those within, and with the thirty graves. 



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BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



153 



We heard the voice of one who preached within, 
And stopped. "Come on," my brother whispered 

me ; 
" It were more decent that we enter now ; 
Come on ! we'll hear this rare old demigod : 
I like strong men and large ; I like gray heads, 
And grand grnff voices, hoarse though this may be 
With shouting in the storm." 

It was not hoarse. 
The voice that preached to those few fishermen. 
And women, nursing mothers with the babes 
Hushed on their breasts ; and yet it held them not : 
Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us, 
Till, having leaned our rods against the wall. 
And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat, 
And were apprised that, though he saw us not, 
The parson knew that he had lost the eyes 
And ears of those before him, for he made 
A pause — a long dead pause — and dropped his arms. 
And stood awaiting, till I felt the red 
Mount to my brow. 

And a soft fluttering stir 
Passed over all, and every mother hushed 
The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round 
And met our eyes, unused to diffidence. 
But diffident of his ; then with a sigh 
Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, 
And said, as one that pondered now the words 
He had been preaching on with new surprise, 
And found fresh marvel in their sound, •* Behold ! 
Behold ! " saith He, '^ I stand at the door and knock." 

Then said the parson : " AVhat ! and shall He wait, 
And must He wait, not only till we say, 
' Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swei)t. 
The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are in, 
And all the nets are mended ; therefore I 



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154 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



Will slowly to the door and open it ; ' 

But must He ulso wait where still, behold I 

He stands and knocks, while we do say, '(iood Lord, 

The gentlefolk are eonie to worship here, 

And I will up and open to Thee soon ; 

But first I pray a little longer wait. 

For I am taken up witli them ; my eyes 

Must needs regard the fashion of their clothes, 

And count the gains I think to make by them ; 

Forsooth, they are of much accoiuit, good Lord ! 

Therefore have patience with me — wait, dear Lord ! 

Or come again ' ? 

"What ! must He wait for this — 
For this? Ay, He doth wait for this, and still. 
Waiting for this, He, patient, raileth not ; 
Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, ' Behold ! 
I stand at the door and knock.' 

" O patient hand 
Knocking and waiting — knocking in the night 
When worlc is done ! I charge you by the sea 
W'hei'eby yuu fill your children's mouths, and by 
The might of Him that made it — fishermen ! 
I charge you, mothers ! by the mother's milk 
He drew, and by His Father, God over all, 
Blessil'd forever, that ye answer Him ! 
Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned ; 
If ye be sorry, open it witli sighs. 
Albeit the place be bare for poverty, 
And comfortless for lack of plenishing, 
Be not abashed for that, but open it, 
And take Him in that comes to sup with thee : 
' Behold ! ' He saith, ' I stand at the door and knock.' 

'' Now, hear me : there be troubles in this world 
That no man can escape, and there is one 



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BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



155 



That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, 
Concerning that which is to come : — 

I say 
As a mtui that knows what eartlil}' trouble means, 
I will not bear this one — I cannot bear 
This ONE — I cannot bear the weight of you — 
You — every one of you, body and soul ; 
You, with the care 3'ou suffer, and the loss 
That you sustain ; you, with the growing up 
To peril, maybe with the growing old 
To want, unless before I stand with you 
At the great white throne, I may be free of all. 
And utter to the full what shall discharge 
Mine obligation : nay, I will not wait 
A day, for every time the black clouds rise, 
And the gale freshens, still I search my soul 
To find if there be aught that can persuade 
To good, or aught forsooth that can beguile 
From evil, that I (miserable man ! 
If that be so) have left unsaid, undone. 

" So that when any risen from sunken wrecks, 

Or rolled in b}' the billows to the edge 

Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea 

Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may say 

Never, ' Old man, you told us not of tliis ; 

Y''ou left us fisher lads that had to toil 

Ever in danger of the secret stab 

Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger; winds 

Of breath more murderous than tlie cannon's ; waves 

JMighty to rock us to our death ; and gulfs. 

Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in : 

This crime be on your head ; and as for us — 

AYhat shall we do?' but rather — nay, not so, 

I will not think it ; I will leave the dead, 

Appealing but to life : I am afraid 

Of vou, but not so much if vou have sinned 






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156 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. 

The day was, I have been afraid of pride — 

Hard man's hard pride ; but now I am afraid 

Of man's humility. I counsel you, 

Bv the great God's great humbleness, and hy 

His pity, be not humble over-much. 

See ! I will show at whose unopened doors 

He stands and knocks, that you may never sav, 

' I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost ; 

He knocks at othei' doors, but not at mine.' 

'^ See here ! it is the night ! it is the night ! 
And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow, 
And the wan moon upon a casement shines — 
A casement crusted o'er with frosty leaves, 
That makes her ray less bright along the floor. 
A woman sits, with hands upon her knees. 
Poor tired soul ! and she has naught to do. 
For there is neither fire nor caudle light : 
The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth ; 
The rushlight flickered down an hour ago ; 
Her children wail a little in their sleep 
For cold and hunger, and, as if that sound 
Was not enough, another comes to her, 
Over God's undefil^d snow — a song — 
Nay, never hang your heads — I say, a song. 
"• And doth she curse the alehouse, and the sots' 
That drink the night out and their earning there. 
And drink their manly strengtli and courage down. 
And drink away the little cliildren's bread, 
And starve her, starving by the self-same act 
Her tender suckling, that with piteous eyes 
Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heart 
To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop 
That feed tlie otliers? 

' *• Does she curse the song ? 
I think not, fishermen ; I have not heard 



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BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



157 



Such women curse. God's curse is enough. 
To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, 
Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show — 
A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse — 
' My master is not worse than many men : ' 
But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still ; 
No food, no comfort, cold and poverty 
Bearing her down. 

' ' My heart is sore for her ; 
How long, how long? When troubles come of God, 
When men are frozen out of work, when wives 
Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, 
W^hen boats go down at sea — then naught behooves 
Like patience ; but for troubles wrought of men 
Patience is hard — I tell you it is hard. 

" O thou poor soul \ it is the niglit — the night ; 

Against thy door drifts up the silent snow. 

Blocking thy threshold : ' Fall,' thou sayest, ' fall, fall 

Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. 

Am not I fallen ? wake up and pipe, O wind. 

Dull wind, and beat and bluster at my door : 

Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song. 

For tliere is other music made to-night 

That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea, 

Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall. 

O, I could long like thv cold icicles 

Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift 

And not complain, so I might melt at last 

In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do ! 

" ' But woe is me ! I think there is no sun ; 
My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark: 
None care for me. The children cry for bread. 
And I have none, and naught can comfort me ; 
Even if the heavens were free to such as I, 
It were not much, for death is long to wait, 
And heaven is far to o-q ! ' 



'W 



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BKOTHEKS, AND A SERMONS 



*' And spoak'st thou thus, 
Di'spiuriiig of the sun that sets to thee. 
And of the eurtlily love that wanes to thee. 
And of the heaven tliat Ueth far from thee ? 
I'eaee, peace, fond fool ! One (haweth near thy door 
Whose footsteps leave no print aeross (he snow; 
'L'liy sun lias risen with eonilbrt in liis laci", 
Tlie smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart. 
And bless with saintly hand. "What! is it long 
'1\) wait, and far to go? Thou shalt uot go; 
l>eht)ld, aeross the snow to thee He comes. 
Thy heaven descends ; and is it long to wait? 
Thonsltalt not wait : ' This night, this niglit,' He saith, 
' I stand at the door and knock.' 

"• It is enough — can such an one be here — 
Yea, here? O God forgive you, fishermen ! 
One ! is there only one ? But do thou know, 

woman pale for want, if thou art iiere, 

That on thy lot nmch thonglit is s})ent in heaven ; 
And, coveting the heart a hard man broke, 
One standeth patient, watching in the night, 
And waiting in the daytime. 

'' What shall be 
If thou wilt answer? He will smile on thee ; 
One smile of His shall be enough to heal 
The wound of. man's neglect; and He will sigh, 
Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure ; 
And He will speak — speak in the desolate night. 
In tlie dark night: ' For me a thorny crown 
Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands 
And fei't : tliere was an earthquake, and 1 ilied ; 

1 died, and am alive for evermore. 

^' ' I died for thee ; for thee I am alive, 
And ray humanity doth mourn for thee. 
For thou art mine ; and all thv little ones, 



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BROTHERS, AND A SERMON: 



59 



They, too, are mine, are mine. Behold, the house 
Is dark, hiit there is brightness where tlio sons 
Of God are singing ; and, behold, tlie heart 
Is troubled : yet the nations walk in vvliite : 
They have forgotten how to weep ; and thou 
Shalt also come, and 1 will foster thee 
And satisfy thy soul ; and thou shalt warm 
Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. 
A little while — it is a little while — 
A little while, and I will comfort thee ; 
1 go awa}', but I will come again.' 

" But h(;ar me yet. ' There was a poor old man 

Who sat and listened to the raging sea, 

And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs 

As like to tear them down. He lay at night ; 

And ' Lord have mercy on the lads,' said he, 

' That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine ! 

For when the gale gets uj), and when the wind 

Flings at the window, when it beats the roof. 

And lulls, and stops, and rouses up again. 

And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave, 

And scatters it like feathersi up the field. 

Why, then I think of my two lads : my lads 

That would have worked and never let me want. 

And never let me take the parish pay. 

No, none of mine ; my lads were drowned at sea — 

My two — before the most of these were born. 

I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife 

W^alked up and tlown, and still walked up and down, 

And I walked after, and one could not liear 

A word the other said, for wind and sea 

That raged and beat and thundered in the night — 

The awfullest, the longest, lightest niglit 

That ever panmts had to spend — a moon 

That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. 

Ah me I and other men have lost their lads. 



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1 60 



BROTHERS. AND A SERMOIV. 



And other women wiped their poor dead mouths, 
And got tliein home and dried tliem in the house, 
And seen the (h'iftwood lie along the coast, 
That was a tidy boat but one day back, 
And seen next tide the neighbors gather it 
To lay it on their fires. 

Ay, I was strong 
And able-bodied — loved my work ; — but now 
I am a useless hull : 'tis time I sank ; 
I am in all men's way ; I troubled them ; 
I am a trouble to myself : but yet 
I feel for mariners of stormy nights. 
And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay 1 
If I had learning I would pray the Lord, 
To bring them in : but I'm no scholar, no ; 
Book-learning is a world too hard for me : 
But 1 make bold to say, O Lord, good Lord, 
I am a broken-down poor man, a fool 
To speak to Thee : but in the Book 'tis writ, 
As I hear say from others that can read, 
How, when Thou camest. Thou didst love the sea, 
And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure 
Thou knowest all the peril they go through. 
And all their trouble. 

As for me, good Lord, 
I have no boat ; I am too old, too old — 
My lads are drowned ; I buried my i)oor wife ; 
My little lasses died so long ago 
That mostly I forget what they were like. 
Thou knowest, Lord ; they were such little ones 
I know they went to thee, but I forget 
Their faces, thougli I missed them sore. 

O Lord. 
I was a strong man ; I have drawn good food 
And made good money out of Thy great sea : 
But yet I cried for them at nights ; and now, 
Althouiih I be so old, I miss mv lads, 



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BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. i6i 



And there be many folk this stormy night 
Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, 
Comfort them ; save their honest boys, their pride, 
And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, 
Best sound — the boat keels grating ou the sand. 

" ' I cannot pray with finer words : I know 

Nothing ; I have no learning, cannot learn — 

Too okl, too old. They say I want for naught, 

I have the parisli pay ; but I am dull 

Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. 

God save me — I have been a sinful man — 

And save the lives of them that still can work, 

For they are good to me ; ay, good to me. 

But, Lord, I am a trouble ! and I sit, 

And I am lonesome, and the nights are few 

That any think to come and draw a chair, 

And sit in my poor place and talk awhile. 

Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind 

Knocks at my door, O long and loud it "knocks. 

The only thing C4od made that has a mind 

To enter in.' 

" Yea, thus the old man spake ; 
These were the last words of his aged mouth — 
But One did knock. One came to sup with him, 
That humble, weak old man ; knocked at his door 
In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. 
1 tell you tliat One knocked while it was dark, 
Save where their foaming passion had made white 
Those livid seething billows. What He said 
In that poor place where He did talk awhile 
I cannot tell ; but this I am assured, 
That when the neighbors came the morrow morn. 
What time the wind had bated, and the sun 
Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile 
He passed away in, and they said, ' He looks 
As he had woke and seen the face of Christ. 






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BROTHEjRS, AXD a SEKMOX. 



n 



And with that rapturous smile held out his arms 
To come to Him ! ' 

•• Can such an one be here, 
80 old, so weak, so ignorant, so frail? 
The Lord be good to thee, thou jioor old man ; 
It would be hard with thee if heaven were shut 
To sueh as have not learning I Nay. nay, nay, 
He condescends to them of low estate : 
To sueh as are despised He cometh down, 
Stands at the door and knocks. 

*• Yet bear with nie. 
I have a message ; I have more to say. 
Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin — 
That burden ten times heavier to be borne? 
"What think you? Shall the virtuous have His care 
Alone? O virtuous women, think not scorn. 
For you may lift your faces everywhere ; 
And now that it grows dusk, and 1 can see 
None though they front me straight, I fain would tell 
A certain thing to you. I say to you ; 
And if it doth concern you. as methinks 
It doth, then surely it concerneth all. 
I say that there was once — I say nor here — 
I say that there was once a castaway. 
And she was weeping, weeping bitterly ; 
Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry 
That choked itself in sobs — ' O my good name ! 
O my good name I ' And none did hear hi-r cry ! 
Xay : and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell. 
And the rain splashed upon the roof, and still 
She. storm-tost as the storming elements — 
She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, 
" O my good name I ' And then the thunder-cloud 
Stooped low and burst in darkness overhead. 
And rolled, and rocked her on her knees, and shooK 
The frail foundations of her dwelling-place. 



w 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 



103 



liut she — if auy rieiglibors had come in 
(None did) : if any neighbors had come in, 
They niiglit have seen her crying on her knees, 
And sobbing, • Lost, lost, lost I ' beating her breast — 
Her bi-east forever pricked with cruel thorns, 
The wounds whereof could neither balm assuage 
Nor an3- patience heal — Ijeating her brow. 
Which ached, it had l>een bent so long to hide 
From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt. 

" O ye good women, it is hard to leave 
The paths of virtue, and return asain. 
What if this sinner wept, and^none of you 
Comforted her? And what if she did strive 
To mend, and none of you believed her strife. 
Nor looked upon her? Mark, 1 do not say, 
Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame ; 
That she had aught against you, though your feet 
Never drew near her door. But I beseech 
Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem 
A woman kneeled at consecrated feet, 
Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. 

What then ? 
I think that yet our Lord is pitiful : 
I think I see the castaway e'en now ! 
And she is not alone ; the heavj- rain 
Splashes without, and sullen thunder rolls. 
But she is lying at the sacred feet 
Of One transfigured. 

" And her tears flow down, 
Down to her lips, — her lips that kiss the print 
Of nails ; and love is like to break her heart ! 
Love and repentance — for it still doth work 
Sore in her soul to think, to think that she. 
Even she, did pierce the sacred, sacred feet, 
And bruise the thorn-crowned head. 



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rElx 



104 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON: 



'' O Lord, our Lord, 
How great is Thy compassion ! Come, good Lord, 
For we will open. Coiue this night, good Lord ; 
Stand at the door and knock. 

''And is this all? — 
Trouble, old age and sinipleness. and sin — 
This all ? It might be all some other night ; 
But this night, if a voice said, ' Give account 
"Whom hast thou with thee?' then must I reph', 
^ Youu_g manhood have I, beautif nl youth and strength 
Eicli with all treasure drawn up from the crypt 
"Where lies the learuiifg of the ancient world — 
Brave with all thoughts that poets fling upon 
The strand of life, as driftweeci after storms : 
Doubtless familiar with Th}^ mountain heads. 
And the dread purity of Alpine snows. 
Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed 
For ages from mankind — outlying worlds, 
And many mooned spheres — and Thy great store 
Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here 
Powders the pale leaves of auriculas. 

'* ' This do I know, but. Lord, I know not more. 

" ' Not more concerning them — concerning Thee, 

I know Thy bount}^ ; where Thou givest much 

Standing without, if any call Thee in 

Thou givest more.' Speak, then, O rich and strong : 

Open, O happy 3'oung, ere yet the hand 

Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear ; 

The patient foot its thankless quest refrain. 

The wounded heart for evermore withdraw." 

I have heard man}- speak, but this one man — 
So anxious not to go to heaven alone — 
This one man I remember, niid his look. 
Till twilig'iit overshadowed him. He ceased, 






4_rrFi= 



A WEDDING SONG. 



165 



And out in darkness with the fisher folk 

We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss, 

And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. 

Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain 

From the dim storehouse of sensations past 

The impress full of tender awe, thut night, 

"Which fell on ine ! It was as if the Christ 

Had been drawn down from heaven to track us home 

And any of the footsteps following us 

Might have been His. 



A WEDDING SONG. 

Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane, 

My Dane with the beautiful eyes ! 
Thousands and thousands await thee full fain, 

And talk of the wind and the skies. 
Fear not from folk and from country to part, 

O, I swear it is wisely done ; 
For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart, 

As becometh my father's son. 

Great London was shouting as I went down, 

" She is worth}^" I said, "of this ; 
What shall I give who have promised a crown ? 

O, first I will give her a kiss." 
So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane, 

Through the waving wonderful crowd : 
Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain, 

Like mighty thunders and loud. 

And they said, " He is young, the lad we love, 

The heir of the Isles is vouug : 
How we deem of his mother, and one gone above, 

Can neither be said nor suns:. 



<r-+- 



1 



^ 



i66 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



He brings us a pledge — he will do his part 
With the best of his race and name ; " — 

And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, 
As may suit with my mother's fame. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

I LOVE this gray old church, the low, long nave. 
The ivied chancel and the slender spire ; 

No less its shadow on each heaving grave, 
With growing osier bound, or living briar : 

1 love those yew-tree trunks, where stand arrayed 

So many deep-cut names of youth and maid. 

A simple custom this — I love it well — 
A carved betrothal and a pledge of truth ; 

How many an eve, their linked names to spell, 
Beneath the yew-trees sat our village youth ! 

When work was over, and the new-cut hay 

Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay. 

Ah ! many an eve, while I was yet a boy, 
Some village hind has beckoned me aside, 

And sought mine. aid, with shy and awkward joy. 
To carve the letters of his rustic bride, 

_ nd make them clear to read as graven stone. 

Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own. 

For none could carve like me, and here they stand, 
Fathers and mothers of this present race ; 

And underscored by some less practised hand. 
That fain the story of its line would trace, 

With children's names, and number, and the day 

When any called to God have passed away. 



m 



llJ 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 167 

I look upon them, and I turn aside, 

As oft when carving tliem I did erewhile ; 

And there I see those wooden bridges wide 
That cross tlie marshy lioUow ; there the stile 

In reeds imbedded, and the swelling down, 

And the white road toward the distant town. 

But those old bridges claim another look. 

Our brattling river tumbles through the one ; 
The second spans a shallow, weedy brook ; 

Beneath the others, and beneath the sun. 
Lie two long stilly pools, and on their breasts 
Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' 
nests. 

And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, 
And then a floating crown of lily-flowers, 

And yet within small silver-budded weeds ; 
But each clear centre evermore embowers 

A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see 

The little minnows darting restlessly. 

My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet ; 

Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices ? 
Why iu your beauty are you thus complete, 

You silver ships — • you floating palaces ? 
() ! if need be, you must allure man's eye, 
Yet wherefore blossom here? O why? O why? 

! O ! the world is wide, 3'ou lily-flowers. 
It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools, 

Where every night bathe crowds of stars ; and 
bowers 
Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools 

And shakes the lilies among those stars that lie : 

Why are not ye content to reign there? AVhy? 




i68 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell 
How it is Halved with all my early joy. 

There was a little foot that 1 loved well, 
It danced across them wlien I was a boy ; 

There was a careless voice that used to sing ; 

There was a child, a sweet and happy thing. 

Oft through that matted wood of oak aud birch 
!Slie came from yonder house upon the hill ; 

She crossed the wooden bridges to the church, 
And watched, with village girls, my boasted skill 

But loved to watch the floating lilies best. 

Or linger, peering in a swallow's nest ; 

Linger and linger, with her wistful eyes 
Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so white 

Aud soft on crimson water ; for the skies 

Would crimson, and the little cloudlets bright 

Would all be flung among the flowers sheer down. 

To flush the spaces of their clustering crown. 

Till the green rushes — O, so glossy green — 
The rushes, they would whisper, rustle, shake ; 

And forth on floating gauze, no jewelled queeu 
So rich, the green-eyed dragon-flies would break. 

And hover on the flowers — aerial things, 

With little rainbows flickering on their wings. 

Ah ! my heart dear ! the polished pools lie still. 
Like lanes of water reddened by tlie west. 

Till, swooping down from yon o'erlianging hill. 
The bold marsh harrier wets her tawny breast ; 

We scared her oft in childhood from her prey. 

And the old eager thoughts rise fresh as yesterday-. 

To j'onder copse by moonlight I did go, 

In luxury of mischief, half afraid. 
To steal the great owl's brood, her downv snow, 



^ 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



169 



Her screaming imps to seize, the while she preyed 
With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare. 
Fell with their inotlier rage, I might not dare. 

Panting I lay till her great fanning wings [uigh, 
Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering 

And she and her fierce mate, like evil things, 

Skimmed the dusk fields ; then rising, with a cry 

Of fear, joy, triumph, darted on my prey, 

And tore it from the nest and fled away. 

But afterward, belated in the wood, 

I saw her moping on the rifled tree, 
And my heart smote me for her, while I stood 

Awakened from my careless reverie ; 
So white she looked, with moonlight round her shed, 
So motherlike she drooped and hung her head. 

O that mine eyes would cheat me ! I behold 
The god wits running by the water edge. 

The mossy bridges mirrored as of old ; 

The little curlews creeping from the sedge. 

But not the little foot so gayly light ; 

O that mine eyes would cheat me, that I might ! — 

Would cheat me ! I behold the gable-ends — 
Those purple pigeons clustering on the cote ; 

The lane with maples overhung, that bends 
Toward her dwelling ; the dry grassy moat, 

Thick muUions, diamond-latticed, mossed and gray. 

And walls banked up with laurel and with bay. 

And up behind them yellow fields of corn. 
And still ascending countless firry spires, 

Dry slopes of hills uncultured, bare, forlorn. 

And green in rocky clefts with whins and briars ; 

Then rich cloud masses dyed the violet's hue. 

With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly through. 



-t— ? 



170 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Ay, I behold all this full easih^; 

My soul is jealous of uiy ha[)pier eyes, 
And manhood envies youth. Ah, strange to see, 

By looking merel}', orange-flooded skies ; 
Nay, any dewdro[) that may near me shine : 
But never more the face of Eglantine ! 

She was my one companion, being herself 

The jewel and adornment of my days, 
My life's completeness. O, a smiling elf. 

That I do but dis[)arage with my praise — 
jMv playmate; and 1 loved her deai'ly and long. 
And she loved me, as the tender love the strong- 
Ay, but she grew, till on a time tliere came 

A sudden i-estless yearning to my heart ; 
And as we went a-nesting, all for shame 

And sliyness, I did hold ray peace, and start ; 
Content departed, comfort shut me out, 
And there was nothing left to talk about. 

She had but sixteen years, and as for me. 
Four added made my life. This i)retty bird. 

This fairy bird that I had cliei'ished — she. 
Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. 

The song had ceased; the bird, Avith nature's art, 

Had brouglit a thorn and set it in my heart. 

The restless birth of love my soul opprest ; 

I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day, 
And warred with that disquiet in my breast 

As one who knows there is a better way ; 
But, turned against myself, I still in vain 
Looked for the ancient calm to come again. 

My tirt^d soul could to itself confess 

That she deserved a wiser love than mine ; 
To love more truly were to love her less, 



2-4- 



]J_ 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



171 



And for this truth I still awoke to pine : 
I had a dim belief that it would be 
A better thiug for lier, a blessed thing for me^ 

Good hast Thou made them — comforters right sweet ; 

Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent ; 
Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the w]\eat ; 

Good are Thy stars above the firmament. 
Take to Thee, take, Thy worship, Thy renown ; 
The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown. 

For, O my God, Thy creatures are so frail, 

Th}' bountiful creation is so fair. 
That, drawn before us like the temple veil. 

It hides the Holy Place from thought and care, 
Giving man's eyes instead its sweeping fold. 
Rich as with cherub wings and apples wrought of 
gold, 

Purple and blue and scarlet — shimmering bells 
And rare pomegi'anates on its broidered rim, 

Glorious with chain and fret woi'k that the swell 
Of incense shakes to mnsic dreamy and dim. 

Till on a day comes loss, that (Tod makes gain. 

And death and darknesss rend the veil in twain. 



Ah, sweetest ! my beloved ! each ontward thing 
Recalls my youth, and is instinct with thee ; 

Brown wood-owls in the dusk, with noiseless wing, 
Float from yon hanger to their haunted tree. 

And hoot full softly. Listening, I regain 

A flashing thought of thee with their remembered 
strain. 

I will not pine — it is the careless brook, 

These amber sunbeams slanting down the A'ale ; 
It is the long tree-shadows, with their look 





m 



172 



THE J-OUK BR/DuES. 



Of natnrtil peace, tliat make my heart to fail : 
The peace of nature — No, I will not pine — 
But () tlie contrast 'tvvixt her face and mine ! 

And still I cliauged — I was a boy no more ; 

My heart was large enough to hold my kind, 
And all the world. As hath been oft before 

With youth, I sought, but I could never find 
Work h;trd enough to quiet my self-strife. 
And use the strength of action-craving life. 

(She, too, was chaugt'd : lu'r bountiful sweet eyes 
Looked out full lovingly on all the Avorld. 

O tender as the deeps in yonder skies 

Their beaming ! but her rosebud lips were curled 

With the soft dimple of a musing smile, 

Which kept my gaze, but held me mute the while. 

A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain. 

The scent of bean-tlowers wafted up a dell, 
Blue pigeons wheeling over fields of grain. 

Or bleat of folded lamb, would please her well ; 
Or cooing of the early coted dove ; — 
She, sauntering, mused of these ; 1, following, mused 

of love. 
With her two lips, that one the other pressed 

So poutingly with such a trancpiil air. 
With luu- two eyes, that on my own would rest 

So dream-like, she denied my silent prayer. 
Fronted uuuttered words, and said them nay. 
And smiled down love till it had naught to say. 

The words that througii mine eyes would clearly shine 
Hovered and hovered on my lips in vain ; 

If tifter pause 1 said but '•'• Eghiutiue," 
.She raised to me lu'r (piiet eyelids twniu. 

And looked me this reply — look calm, yet bland — 

"I shall not know, 1 will not understand." 



K,. 



1^- 






i^ 



llJ 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



173 



Yet she did kuow my story — knew my life 

Was wrought to hers with bindings many and 
strong ; 

That 1, hke Israel, servc^d for a wife, 

And for the love I bear her thought not long. 

But only a few days, full quickly told, 

My seven years' service strict as his of old. 

1 must be brief : the twilight shadows grow. 
And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds, 

And scented wafts of wind that come and go 
Have lifted dew from honeyed clover-heads ; 

The seven stars shine out above the mill, 

The dark delightsome woods lie veiled and still. 

Hush ! hush ! the nightingale begins to sing. 

And stops, as ill contented with her note ; 
Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing. 

Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat, 
Laments a wliile in wavering trills, and then 
Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen. 
The seven stars ui)on the nearest pool 

Lie trem])ling down betwixt the lily leaves. 
And move like ghnvworms ; wafting breezes cool 

Come down along the water, and it heaves 
And bubbles in the sedge ; while deep and wide 
The dim night settles on the country side. 

I know this scene by heart. O ! once before 
I saw the seven stars Hoat to and fro, 

And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore 
To mark the starry pictiu'e spread below : 

Its silence made the tumult in my breast 

More audible ; its peace revealed my own vnirest. 

I paused, then hurried on ; my heart beat quick ; 
I crossed the bridges, reached the steep ascent. 
And climbed through matted fern and hazels thick ; 



^_!T7^- 



^ 



'W 



.t£J 




174 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Then darkling through the close green maples went, 

And saw — thi're l\'lt love's keencsl pangs begin — 
An oriel window liglitt'd iVoui within : 

I saw — aiid I'dt that 11 icy wn-e scarcely cares 
Which 1 liad known before. I drew more near, 

And () ! nietliouglit how sori> it (Vets and wears 
Tlie soul to part with that it holds so dear: 

'Tis hard two woven tendrils to untwine, 

Anil I was come to part with Kglantine. 

Foi' life was liitti'r tiu'ongli those words n-pressed, 
And youth was burdened with unspoken vows ; 

Love unrecpiited brooded in my breast, 

And shrank, at glance, iVoni llu' belovc'd brows: 

And three long months, hearl-sick, my foot witii- 
drawn, 

1 had not sought her side by i'i\iilel, copse, oi' lawn — 

Not sought hei- side, yet busy ilu)Ught no less 
Still followed in lu'r wak(>, though far l)eiiind ; 

And I, being partt'd from hei' loveliness. 
Looked at the picture of her in my mind : 

I lived alone, I w:ilke(l with soul opprest, 

And eviM' siglu'd for her. and sighed for rest. 

Then I had risen to stiuggle with my heart. 

And said: •• () heart I the world is fresli and fair. 
And I am young; but this thy restless smart 

Changes to l)itterness the morning air: 
1 will, I must, these weary fetters bre;ik — 
I will be free, if only for her sake. 

"() let^ me ti()ul)le iiei' no more with sighs! 

lleart-healing comes by distance, and with time : 
Then let me wander, and enrich mine eyes 

With the green forc'sts of a softer clime, 
Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave 
And long monotonous roekings of the wave. 



=H 



~~-j 



M 



■^ 




7 7/ A' 7'Y;rA' HK/IXJJCS. 



ns 



" Through open solitudes, unbounded meads, 
AVlicre, wading on breast-liigli in yellow bloom, 

Untamed of man, the; shy whit(3 llama feeds — 
There wouhl 1 joiinicy and forget my doom ; 

O far, O far as siini'ise J would see 

The level prairie sti'etch away fj'om me ! 

^ Or would I sail upon IIk! tropic seas, 

AVhcre fathom long tiie blood-red dulses grow, 

Drooi) from th(! rock and waver in the breeze, 
J^ashing the tide lo foam ; while calm below 

Tlu! mufldy mandrakes throng these waters warm. 

And pnr|il(', gold, and green, the living blossoms 
swarm." 

So of my father I did win consent. 

With im[)<jrtunities I'epeated long. 
To make that duty which had been my Ijent, 

To dig with strangers alien tombs among, 
And lioinid lo llicm through desert leagues to pace, 
Or track u[) I'JNcrs to their starting-place. 

For tliis I had done battle and had won, 
l»ul not alone lo tread Arabian sands. 

Measure tlu; shadows of a south(!rn sun. 
Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands ; 

But for the dream wherewith I thought to co|)(' — 

The grief of love unmated with love's ho])(;. 

And now 1 would set reason in array, 

Methought, and tight for freedom manfully, 

Till l)y long absence there would come a day 
When this. my love would not be pain to me ; 

But if I knew my rose-bud fair and blest 

T should not pine to wear it on my Ijreast. 

Tlie days fled on : anothei- w<'ek should fling 
A foreign shadow on my lengthening way ; 




^ 



176 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Another week, yet nearness did not bring 

A braver iieart that hard farewell to say. 
I let the last day wane, the dusk beg-in, 
Ere I had sought that window lighted from witlnn. 

Sinking and sinking, O my heart ! my heart I 

Will absence heal tliee whom its sliade doth rend? 

I reached the little gate, and soft within 
The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend 

Her loveliness to me, and let me share 

The listless sweetness of those features fair. 

Among thick laurels in the gathering gloom, , 

Heav3' for this our parting, I did stand ; 

Beside her mother in the lighted room, 

She sitting leaned her cheek upon her hand ; 

And as she read, her sweet voice, floating through 

The open casement, seemed to mourn me an adieu. 

Youth I youth I how buoyant are thy hopes! they 
turn. 
Like marigolds, toward the sunny side. 
My hopes were buried in a funeral urn, 

And they sprang up like plants and spread them 
wide ; 
Though I had schooled and reasoned them away. 
They gathered smiling near and prayed a holida}-. 

Ah, sweetest voice ! how pensive were its tones, 
And how regretful its unconscious pause ! 

'• Is it for me her heart this sadness owns. 
And is our parting of to-night the cause? 

Ah, would it might be so ! " I thought, and stood 

Listening entranced among the underwood. 

I thought it would be something worth the pain 
Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes. 
And take from them an answeriuo- look aoain. 



in: 



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THE FOUR BRIDGES. 177 

" When eastern palms," I thought, "about me rise, 
If I miglit carve our names upon the rind, 
Betrothed, I would not 'nourn, though leaving thee 
beiiind." 

I can be patient, faithful, and most fond 

To uuacknowledged love ; I can be true 
To this sweet thraldom, this unequal bond, 

This yoke of mine that reaches not to you : 
O, how much more could costly- parting buy — 
If not a pledge, one kiss, or, failing that, a sigh ! 
I listened, and she ceased to read ; she turned 

Her face toward the laurels where I stood : 
Her mother spoke — O wonder ! hardly learned •, 

She said, " There is a rustling in the wood ; 
Ah, child I if one draw near to bid farewell. 
Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell. 

" My daughter, there is nothing held so dear 

As love, if onl}- it be hard to win. 
The roses that in yonder hedge appear 

Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within ; 
But since the hand may pluck them everv day, 
Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift awaj'. 
" My daughter, my beloved, be not you 

Like those same roses." O bewildering word ! 
My heart stood still, a mist obscured m.\ view : 

It cleared ; still silence. No denial stirred 
The lips beloved ; but straight, as one opprest. 
She, kneeling, dropped her face upon her mother's 
breast. 

This said, " My daughter, sorrow comes to all ; 

Our life is checked with shadows manifold : 
But woman has this more — she may not call 

Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told. 
And only born of absence and by thous^ht. 
With thought and absence may return to nouoht.'* 



V7=\~ 



n 



h 



178 



7'//E JVi'R BRIDGES. 



And lu}' beloved lifted up her face, 

And moved her lips as if abont to speak ; 

!She droi)ped iier lashes with a girlish grace. 
And the lic-h tlainask mantled in lirr eheek : 

I stood awaiting till slie sliould deny 

Her love, or witli sweet langhter put it by. 

But, closer nestling to her mother's heart. 

She, blushing, said no word to break my trance. 
For I was breathless ; and, with lips apart. 

Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance. 
And strove to move, but could not for tlie weight 
Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so great. 

Because she loved me. A^"illl a mighty sigh 
Breaking awny, 1 left her on her knees, 

And blest the laurel bower, the darkened sky. 
The sultry niglit of August. Through the trees. 

Giddy with gladness, to the porch I w^ant. 

And hardly found the way for joyful wonderment. 

Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit 

AVith both hands cherishing the graceful head. 

Smoothing the clustered hair, and parting it 
From the fair brow : she, rising, only said: 

In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word. 

The careless greeting that I always heard ; 

And she resumed her merry, mocking smile, 

Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung. 

O woman I thou wert fashioned to beguile : 
So have all sages said, all [)oets sung. 

She spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships. 

With smiles of gratulation on her lips I 

And then she looked and faltered : I had grown 

So suddenly in life and soul a man : 
She moved her lips, but could not find a tone 



% 



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THE FOUR nR/DGES. 



179 



To set her mocKiug music to ; began 
One struggle for douuuiou, ruised her eves, [prise. 
And straight withdrew them, bashful through sur- 

The color over cheek and bosom duslicd ; 

1 might have heard the beating of her heart, 
But that mine own beat louder ; when she blushed, 

The hand within n:ine own I felt to start, 
But would not change my pitiless decree 
To strive with her for might and mastery. 

She looked again, as one that, half afraid, 
Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing ; 

Or one beseeching, •*• Do not me upbraid ! " 
And then she trembled like the fluttering 

Of timid little birds, and silent stood. 

No smile wherewith to mock my hardihood. 

Siie turned, and to an open casement moved 
With girlish sliyncss. unite beneath my gaze, 

And 1 (Ml (l(nvuc:ist lashes unreproved 

Could look ns long as pleased me ; while, the rays 

Of moonlight round her, she her fair head bent, 

in modest silence to my words attent. 

How fast the giddy whirling moments flew ! 

The moon had set ; I heard the midnight chime : 
Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread. 

And I could wait unmoved the parting time. 
It came ; for, by a sudden impulse drawn, 
She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn. 

A little waxen taper in her hand. 

Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass. 

She looked like one of the celestial band. 
Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass 

Most human blushes ; while, the soft light thrown 

On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer 
on-own. 



jrc 



A 



itio THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Her mother, looking out toward her, sighed, 
Then gave her hand in token of farewell, 

And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide, 
Scarce suffered that I sought her child to tell 

The story of my life, whose every line 

No other burden bore than — Eglantine. 

Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind. 
The waxen taper burned full steadily ; 

It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind 
To hear what lovers say, and her decree 

Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to ground 

With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound. 

happiness ! thou dost not leave a trace 

So well defined as sorrow. Amber light, « 
Shed like a glory on her angel face, 

I can remember fully, and the sight 
Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes, 
And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise. 

\ can remember how the taper played 

Over her small hands and her vesture white ; 

How it struck up into the trees, and laid 
Upon their under leaves unwonted light ; 

And when she held it low, how far it spread 

O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed. 

1 can remembeT that we spoke full low. 

That neither doubted of the other's truth ; 
And that with footsteps slower and more slow. 

Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth i 
Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's flame. 
We wandered till the gate of parting came. 

But I forget the parting words she said. 

So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul ; 
For one short moment human heart and head 



7=\- 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



May bear such bliss — its present is the whole : 
I had that present, till in wliispers fell 
With parting gesture her subdued farewell. 

•' Farewell ! " she said, in act to turn away, 
But stood a moment still to dry her tears, 

And sutfered my enfolding arm to stay 
The time of her departure. O ye years 

Tliat intervene betwixt that day and this ! 

You all received your hue from that keen pain and 
bliss. 

O mingled pain and bliss I O pain to break 
At once from happiness so lately found, 

And four long years to feel for her sweet sake 
The incompleteness of all sight and sound ! 

But bliss to cross once more the foaming brine — 

bliss to come again and make lier mine ! 

1 cannot — O, I cannot more recall I 

But I will soothe my troubled thouglits to rest 
With musing over journeyings wide, and all 

Observance of this active-humored west, 
And swarming cities steeped in eastern clay, 
With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array. 

1 turn from these, and straight there will succeed 
(Shifting and changing at the restless will) , 

Imbedded in some deep Circassian mead, 

White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill 

Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, 

And scarcely show their heads above the grass. 

— The red Sahara in an anguy glow, 

With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed 

Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow, 
And women on their necks, from gazers veiled. 

And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand 

To groves of date-trees on the watered land. 



-^ 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Again — the brown sails of an Arab boat, 
Flapping b^- night upon a glassy sea, 

Whereon the moon and planets seem to float, 
]More bright of hue than they were wont to be, 

While shooting-stars rain down with crackling 
sound, 

And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground. 

Or far into the heat among the sands 

The gembok nations, snuffing up the wind, 

Drawn by the scent of water — and the bands 
Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind 

With the sun-dazzle in their midst, opprest 

With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest ! 

What more? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browed. 
Setting his feet among oil-olive trees. 

Heaving his bare brown shoulder through a cloud ; 
And after, grassy Carmel, purple seas. 

Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks 

Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks. 

Enough : how vain this thinking to beguile, 
With recollected scenes, an aching breast ! 

Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while? 

Ah, yes ! for every landscape comes impressed — 

Ay, written on, as by an iron jien — 

With the same thought I nursed about her then. 

Therefore let memory turn again to home ; 

Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near ; 
Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam. 

And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and clear; 
Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter sound 
Than ever thrilled but over English ground ; 

And walk, glad, even to tears, among the wheat. 
Not doubting this to be the first of lands ; 




'W 



llj 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



183 



And, while in foreign words this murmuring, meet 
Some Uttle village school-girls (with their hands 
Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting me, 
I count their English talk delightsome melod}' ; 

And seat me on a bank, and draw them near, 
That I may feast myself with hearing it. 

Till shortly they forget their bashful fear. 

Push back their flaxen curls, and round me sit — 

Tell me their names, their daily tasks, and show 

Where wildwood strawberries in the copses grow. 

So passed the day in this delightsome laud : 

My heart was thankful for the English tongue — 

For English sky with feathery cloudlets spanned — 
For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung. 

I journeyed, and at glowing eventide 

Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside. 

That night I slumliered sweetly, being right glad 
To miss the flapping of the shrouds ; but lo ! 

A quiet dream of beings twain I had. 
Behind the curtain talking soft and low : 

Methought I did not heed their utterance flue. 

Till one of them said softly, '' Eglantine." 

I started up awake, 'twas silence all : [clear ; 

My own fond heart had shaped that utterance 
And " Ah ! " methought, '' how sweetly did it fall, 

Though but in dream, upon the listening ear ! 
How sweet from other lips the name well known — 
That name, so many a year heard only from mine 
own ! " 

I thought awhile, then sluml:)er came to me, 
And tangled all my fancy in her maze. 

And I was drifting on a raft at sea. 

The near all ocean, and the far all haze ; 



M3^ 



184 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



Through the white polished water sharks did glide, 
And \.\\> ill heaven I saw no stars to guide. 

" Have mercy, God ! " but lo ! my raft uprose ; 

Drip, drip, I heard the water splash from it ; 
My raft had wings, and as the petrel goes, 

It skimmed the sea, then brooding seemed to sit 
The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden spriug. 
,It flew straight upward like a living thing. 

But strange ! — I went not also in that flight. 
For I was entering at a cavern's mouth ; 

Trees grew within, and screaming birds of night 
Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. 

On, on I went, while gleaming in the dark 

Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stark. 

The trees had flower-buds, nourislied in deep niglit. 

And suddenly, as I went farther in. 
They opened, and they shot out lambent light ; 

Then all at once arose a railing din 
That frighted me : " It is the ghosts," I said, 
" And they are railing for their darkness fled. 

" I hope they will not look me in the face ; 

It frighteth me to hear their laughter loud ; " 
I saw them troop before with jaunty pace. 

And one would shake off dust that soiled her 
shroud : 
But now, O joy unhoped ! to calm my dread. 
Some moonlight filtered through a cleft o'erhead. 

I climbed the lofty trees — the blancht-d trees — 
The cleft was wide enough to let nie through ; 

I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze. 

And stepped on churchyard grasses wet with atjw. 

happy chance ! O fortune to admire ! 

1 stood beside my own loved village spire. 



aJj 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



185 



And ns I gazed upon the 3 e\v-tree's trunk, 
Lo, far-off music — music in the nigiit ! 

80 sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk ; 
It charmed me till I wept with keen delight, 

And in my dream, methought as it drew near 

The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear. 

Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred, 
For high as heaven runs up the piercing strain ; 

The restless music fluttering like a bird 

Bemoaned herself, and dropped to earth again, 

Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid 

That I should die of grief when it did fade. 

And it DID fade ; but while with eager ear 
I drank its last long echo dying away, 

I was aware of footsteps that drew near. 

And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray : 

O, soft above the hallowed place they trod — 

Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod ! 

I turned — 'twas even so — yes. Eglantine ! 

For at the first I had divined the same ; 
I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine. 

And said, '' She is asleep : " still on she came ; 
Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam, 
And thought, " I know that this is but a dream." 

My darling ! O my darling ! not the less 
My dream went on because I knew it such ; 

She came towards me in her loveliness — 

A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch ; 

The rippling gold did on her bosom meet. 

The long white robe descended to her feet. 

The fringed lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed ; 

Her dreamy smile was very fair to see, 
And her two hands were folded to her breast. 



^- 



i86 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



ys"\W\ somewhat held between them heedl'uUy, 
O fast asleep ! and yet methongiit she know 
And felt my nearness those shnt eyelids through. 

She sighed : my tears ran down for tenderness — 
'' And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep? 

Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, 
Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses deep? 

if this be I " I said — ■ '■ yet speak to me ; 

1 blame my ver}- dream for cruelty." 

Then from her stainless bosom she did take 
Two beauteous lily tlowei's that la}' therein, 

And with slow-moving lips a gesture make, 
As one that some forgotten words dotli win : 

"They floated on the pool," methought she said. 

And water trickled from each lily's head. 

It dropped upon her feet — 1 saw it gleam 

Along the ripples of her yellow hair, 
And stood apart, for only in a dream 

She would have come, methought, to meet me 
there. 
She spoke again — " Ah fair ! ah fresh they shine ! 
And there are many left, and these are mine." 

I answered her with flattering accents meet — 
" Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown." 

'•And sayest thou so?" she sighed in murnuu's 
sweet : 
" I have naught else to give thee now, mine own ! 

For it is night. Then take them, love ! " said she : 

"They have been costly flowers to thee — and me." 

While thus she said I took them from her hand. 
And, overcome with love and nearness, woke ; 

And overcome with rutli that she should stand 
Barefooted in the grass ; that, when she >spoke, 



^LTT^l- 



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THE FOUR BRIDGES. 



187 



Her mystic words should take so sweet a tone 
And of all names lier li[)s ^honld choose "My own.' 

I rose, journe^'ed, neared in}' home, and soon 
Beheld the spire peer out above the hill : 

It was a sunny harvest afternoon, 

When by the churchyard wicket, standing still, 

I cast my eager eyes abroad to know 

If change had touched the scenes of long ago. 

I looked across the hollow ; sunbeams shone 
Upon the old house with tlie gable-ends : 

" Save that the laurel-trees are taller grown, 

No change," methought, " to its gray wall extends 

What clear bright beams on yonder lattice shin.e ! 

There did I sometime talk w'tli Eglantine." 

There standing with my very goal in sight, 
Over my haste did sudden quiet steal ; 

I thought to dally witli my own delight, 

Nor rush on headlong to my garnered weal, 

But taste the sweetness of a short delay, 

And for a little moment hold the bliss at bay. 

The church was open ; it perchance might be 
That there to offer thanks I might essay. 

Or rather, as I think, that I might see 

The place where Eglantine was wont to pray. 

But so it was ; I crossed that portal wide. 

And felt my riot joy to calm subside. 

The low depending curtains, gently swayed, 
Cast over arch and roof a crimson glow ; 

But, ne'ertlieless, all silence and all shade 
It seemed, save only for the ripi)ling flow 

Of their long foldings, when the sunset air 

Sighed through the casements of the honse of prayer. 



1 r 



^ rtn- 




'^ 



.-i MOTHER SIJOll'/XG THE 



I found he)' place, the anoieut oaken stall. 

Where in her childhood 1 had seen her sit. 
Most saint-like and most tranquil there t)t'alL 

Folding her hands, as if a dreaming lit — 
A heavenly vision had before her strayi'd 
Of the Eternal Child in lowly manger laid. 

1 saw her prayer-book laid u[)on the seat. 

And took it in my hand, and felt more near 
In fancy to her, tinding it most sweet 

To think how very oft, low kneeling here, 
In her devout thoughts she had let me share. 
And set my graceless name in her pure prayer. 

My eyes were dazzled with delightful tears — 
In sooth they were the last I ever shed ; 

For with them fell the cherished dreams of years. 
1 looked, and on the wall above my head. 

Over her seat, there was a tablet placed. 

^^'itll one word only on the marble traced. — 

Ah, well I I would not overstate that woe. 
For I have had some blessings, little care ; 

But since the falling of that heavy blow, 

God's earth has never seemed to me so fair ; 

Nor any of His creatures so divine. 

Nor sleep so sweet: — the word was — Eglantine 



MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF 
HER CHH.D. 

(F. M. I..) 

Living Child or pictured cherub 
Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace ; 

And the mother, moving nearer, 
Looked it calmlv in the face : 




n 



B 



'm 



PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 



Then with sHghl and (luiet gesture, 

And with lips that scarcely smiled, 
Said, " A portrait of iny dangliter 

When she was a child." 
J^asy thoutiht was hers to fathom, 

Nothing hard iier glance to read. 
For it seemed to say, " No praises 

For this little child I need : 
If you see, I see far better. 

And I will not feign to care 
For a stranger's prompt assurance 

That the face is fair." 

Softly clasped and half extended, 

She her dimpled hands doth lay : 
So they doul)tless placed them, saying, 

" Little one, you must not play." 
And while yet his work was growing. 

This the painter's hand hath shown. 
That the little heart was making 

Pictures of its own. 

Is it warm in that green valley, 

Vale of childhood, where you dwell? 
Is it calm in that green valley, 

liound whose bournes such great hills swell? 
Are there giants in the valley — 

Giants leaving footprints yet? 
Are there angels in the valley? 

Tell me — 1 forget. 

Answer, answer, for the lilies, 

Little one. o'ertop you much. 
And the mealy gold within tliem 

You can scarcely reach to touch ; 
how far their aspect differs, 

Looking up and looking down ' 



% 



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-I—? 



rt 



190 



./ MOTHER SHOirJNtr THE 



You look up in that green valley — 
Valley of renown. 

Are there voices in the valle^', 

Lying near the heavenly gate ? 
Wlien it opens, do the harp-strings, 

Touched within, reverberate ? 
When, lilce shooting-stars, the angels 

To your couch at nightfall go, 
Arc their swift wings heard to rustle ? 

Tell me ! for you know. 

Yes, you know ; and yon are silent, 

Not a word shall asking win ; 
Little mouth more sweet than rosebud, 

Fast it locks the secret in. 
Not a glimpse upon your |)resent 

You unfold to glad my view ; 
Ah. wliat secrets of your future 

I could tell to you ! 

Suiuiv [)resent I thus I read it. 

By remembrance of my past : — 
Its to-day and its to-morrow 

Are as lifetimes vague and vast ; 
And each face in that green valley 

Takes for you an aspect mild. 
And each voice grows soft in saying — 

'' Kiss me. little child 1 " 

As a boon the kiss is granted : 

Baby mouth, your touch is sweet. 
Takes the love without the trouble 

From those lips that with it meet; 
Gives the love, O pure ! O tender ! 

Of the valley where it grows. 
But the baby heart receiveth 

More than it bestows. 



^~K- 



PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 



IQl 



Comes the future to the present — 

" Ah ! " she saith, " too blithe of mood ; 
Why that smile which seems to whisper — 

' 1 am happy, (lod is good? ' 
God is good : that truth eternal 

Sown for yon in happier years, 
I must tend it in my shadow, 

Water it with tears. 

" Ah, sweet present ! I must lead thee 

By a daylight more subdued ; 
There must teach thee low to whisper — 

' I am mournful, Giod is good ! ' " 
Peace, thou future ! clouds are coming, 

vStooping from the mountain crest. 
But that sunshine floods the valley : 

Let her — let her rest. 

Corhes the future to the present — 

"' Child," she saith, " and wilt thou rest? 
How long, child, before thy footsteps 

Fret to rQach yon cloudy crest? 
Ah, the valley ! — angels guard it. 

But the heights are brave to see ; 
Looking down were long contentment ; 

Come up, child, to me." 

So she speaks, but do not heed her. 

Little maid with wondrous eyes, 
Not afraid, but clear and tender. 

Blue, and filled with proi)hecies ; 
Thou for whom life's veil unlifted 

Hangs, whom warmest ^'alleys fold, 
Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth — 

Climb, but heights are cold. 

There are buds that fold within them. 
Closed and covered from our sight, 
Many a richly tinted petal, 



<r^^ 



-w 



iir 



3 



K 



1 9 2 MOTHER SHO WING THE PORTRAII . AVC. 

Never looked on l)y the light ; 
Fniu to see their sliroiuled fnees. 

Sun und dew are h>nii- at strife. 
Till at length the sweet buds open — 

Such a bud is life. 

AVlien the rose of thini' own being 

Shall reveal its central foUl, 
Thou shalt look within and marvel, 

Fearing what thine eyes behold ; 
What it shows and what it teaches 

Are not things wherewith to part ; 
Thorny rose ! that always costeth 

Beatings at the heart. 

Look in fear, for there is dimness ; 

Ills unshapen float anigh. 
Look in awe : for this same nature 

Once the Godhead deigned to die. 
Look in love, for He doth love it, 

And its tale is best of lore : 
Still humanity grows dearer, 

Being learned the more. 

Learn, but not the less bethink thee 

How that all can mingle tears ; 
But his J03' can none discover, 

Save to them that are his peers ; 
And that they whose lijis do utter 

Language such as bards have sung — 
Lo ! their speecii shall be to many 

As an unknown tongue. 

T^earn, that if to thee the meaning 

Of all other eyes be shown, 
Fewer eyes can ever front thee. 

That are skilletl to read thine own 






STRIFE AND PEACE. 



193 



And that if tliy love's deep current 
Many anotlicr's far outflows, 

Then thy heart must take forever, 
Less than it uestows. 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 

[AViittcn for The I'oiiXKOLio Society, (Jctober, 1861.] 

The yellow poplar leaves come down 

And like a carpet lay, 
No waftings were in the sunny air 

To flutter them away ; 
And he stepped on blithe and deljonair 

That warm October day. 

" The boy," said he. •• hath got his own. 

But sore has been the fight. 
For ere his life began the strife 

That ceased l)ut yesternight ; 
For the will," he said. " the kinsfolk read. 

And read it not aright. 

" His cause was argued in the court 

Before his christening day ; 
And counsel was heard, and judge demurred, 

And bitter waxed the fray ; 
Brother with l)i'other sjjake no word 

When they met in the way. 

" Against each one did each contend. 

And all against the heir. 
I would not bend, for 1 know the end — 

1 have it for my share, 
And nought repent, though my first friend 

From henceforth I nnist spare. 



^ 



^ 



.l-\ 



i()4 .v/'A7 /•■/■; ./.w /'A. /(■/■;. 

^ iMnnor .mihI moor mid laiiii :iinl wold 
'I'licir Lirccd hcyriidiu'd liiiii sorr, 

jVnd itiirclmu'uls old witii pMssioiuiU' hold 
'I'lii'V tiunrdcd lici riororc ; 

And llicv cnrpi'd nl si<i,ii;iliiri> :iiid sr:d, 
Hilt tlu'V iiinv v:\r\) no inoiT. 

"• All old nlTronl will slir llic licnrt 
'riii'oii^li vc.'iis of r.'iiikliiiii- pMin ; 

And I reel llic iVcl lli.-il iiiiicd ine vot 
'I'h.'it \v;ii I'mi'c to maiiilriiii ; 

l'\)r .-111 ciiciiiv's loss limy well 1)C sot 
Alio\ (• ;iii iiir.'iiil's <i;iin. 

"• All ciuMuv's loss 1 ^'o to |)rovc ; 

Liiii^li out , thou littlr heir ! 
L:iul;Ii in his I'lico who X'owcd to t•h;l^^l' 

Tln'c iVoiii thy liirtlirit>ht fair ; 
l'\)r 1 coiiic to si'l tluT in tliy i)l:u'e : 

Lnu^li (.H\[, :iiid do not sitMi'c." 

A 111:111 of sliifi'. in wr.-ilhrul mood 

I \v iH'iircd llu" iiiii'sc's door ; 
AN'illi |ioi)l;ir h'MNi's the roof ;iiid CMVC'S 

>\ (Ml' thickly scntlcii'd o'er. 
And yellow ns they :i siiiiln'niii lay 

Aloii<i' tlu' I'oltaiii' lloor. 

'•' Sh>t'|) on, tlioii i)i'i'lty, pretty laiiili." 

lie hears the I'oud uiirsi> say ; 
'• And it' aniiels stand al thy liulit hand. 

As now helike they may. 
And if auii'els meet at thy hed's fei't. 

I I'l'ar them not this day. 

"Come wealth, come want to tlu-e, dear heart. 

It was all oiii' to me, 
l'\»r tliv pretty toiiiiue far swi-etiT ruiii;' 

Than coined iiold and fee ; 



^^ 



f-J 



s/'N //■/■: Ajwn /'/■:/! c/': 



And ever llic wliih; lliy wiikiiig smile 
It wtis ri<;lil r.'iir to K(h;. 

'' Sleep, pretty huii'ii, :ui(l never know 
VVlio ^•i'U(i<i,(Ml :ui(l wlio tr:iiis<i,r(!8sed ; 

Tlie(; to rettuii I vv:is I'lill fMiii, 
Hut (jO(1, II(! kiiowetli hent! 

And llis [)(!iu;(! upon tliy brow lirs phiin 
As the siui.sliinc! on thy brcMist ! " 

The niiin of sti'ile, he enters in, 
liOoks, :ind liis pride dotii (;e:is(! ; 

Aiiu'cr ;i.nd sorrow sii:dl he; to-morrow 
Ti'oul)l(!, :uid no rei(;use ; 

But tiu! hidn; wliosi- .ife :iwoke the; strife 
Hath (!ntei-ed into peiice. 



^^^ 



'95 



1"=— ^- 



.AB 



fex 



A 



STORY OF DOOM 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



n 



^ 



Li-d- 



li 



A STORY OF DOOM, AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

I SAW in a vision once, our mother-spliere 

Tlie world, her fixed foredoomed ovtil tracing. 

Rolling and rolling on and resting never. 

While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing 

The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear 
Fled as she fled and hung to her forever. 

Great Heaven ! methought, how strange a doom to 
share. 

Would I may never bear 

Inevitable darkness after me 
(Darkness endowed with drawings strong. 

And shadowy hands that cling unendingly). 

Nor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep. 
As she feels night pursuing through the long 

Illimitable reaches of '' the vasty deep." 



God save you, gentlefolks. There was a man 
Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, 

Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran 
Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed 

A comfortable glow, both warm and dim. 

On crimson curtains that encompassed him. 

Right stately was his chamber, soft and white 

The pillow, and his quilt was eider-down. 
What mattered it to him through all thnt night 



Msji^ 



\. 



-nt^ 



-()() /•///■ /'A'A./.I/.V /■// I /■ C.I.I//- /A7V-;. 

Tin' (li'solnlr (li'i\ iiiu cIiiikI iiiinlil lower niid frown, 
And winds were n|) llic cddvini!, sled lo cliMSi', 
TliMi dr:i\i" imd dnivc iind foiuid no scl llini;,-i)l;icc ? 

\\ linl niMltcriMl il WvaI Icntlrss liccs niiiilil. loclv. 
Or snow miulil diil'l :dliw;irl, his w indow-piinc ? 

lh> Icirc :i rluinni^d lii'i> Mniiinsl their shock, 
Seenn> ffoni cold, hini^cr, juid wculher st;iin ; 

l''i\ed in his lii^hl, :ind lioni (o i^ood cslnlc, 

l''roni connnon ills sel by :ind seii:ii:di'. 

l<'roni work rind w:in( :ind fcMf of w:inl :i|):irl, 

'This niMn (men crdled him Jnslice \V ilveiinofc) — 

This miin h;id Miilorled his checii'ul hc.-iit 
With nil IIimI it desired I'lom e\-eiv shore. 

lie hiul :i rifihl, — the riiiht^ ^ i' 'loM is stroiio-, — 

He stood upon his I'liiht his \,hoU> lil\> loiiij;. 

Cuslom mnkes :dl things ensv, ;ind content. 

Is cMi'ci ss, tlierel'ore on the storm :ind cold. 
As he lay wnkim^-, never :i, lhonii,lil he speid, 

Allieil across the y:de beneath the wold, 
Aloii;^' a reedy mer(> thai fro/en lay. 
A I'aiigc^ of s<>rdid liov ds stretched away. 

What, canse hail he lo think on them, I'orsooth? 

What, cans (Iku niiiht, b -yond another nii^ht ? 
IW> was faniiliai- eyen from his youth 

With Ml il' lonsj,- ruin and their e\il pliii'ht. 
Till' winti'N \. ind would search them liivc a scout. 
The water froze within :.-' fii-ely as without. 

lie think u|ion them? No I Thev were I'orlorn. 

So wi'i'e the coweriiir inniati's w lu)m they held ; 
A thril'th'ss i.ibe, ',> shifts and leanness born, 

l'',\ t'r cttniplaiiune' : infancy or eld 
Alike. Ihit (here was rent, i^- Un\'j: a<i-o 
Those <'olta«:'e roofs h;id mel with oNcrlhrow. 



^^ 



Jill: Dh'I'.AMS IJl.lT CAM J'. 'JJWI'. 



For this they stood ; and what his thoughts might be 
That wint(!i' night, I know not ; Ijiit I know 

Tliat, wliih; th(; cr(Mq)ing Ihune fed silently 
And cast upon his bed a crimson glow, 

The Justice sl(!pt, and shortly in his slee|) 

lie fell \.ii dreaming, and his dream was deep. 

lie di'eamed that o\cr him :i shadow ciime ; 

And when he looked to fmd the cause, b(;hold 
Some pei'son knelt between him and th(; llame : — 

A cowering figure of one frail and old, — 
A woman ; and she ]>rayed as he descried. 
And spiead hei- feeble hands, and shook and sighed. 

" Good IIeav(Mi ! " the Justice cried, and bciug dis- 
traught 

He called not to her, but lie look(;cl again : 
She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught 

Upon her head ; and she did quake amain. 
And spi'ead her wasted liands and jjoor attiii; 
To gather in the brightness of his fire. 

" I know you, woman ! " then the Justice cii(;d ; 

" I know that woman well," he cried aloud ; 
" The shepherd Aveland's widow : God me guide ! 

A pauper kneeling on my hearth : " and bow(!d 
The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share ! 
'' How dares she to intrude? VVliat does she there? 

" IIo, woman, ho! " — but yet sIk; did not stii', 
Though from her lips a fitful plainiug broke ; 

" I'll ring my peoi>le up to d(;al with liei- ; 

I'll rouse the house," he cried ; Ijut while he spoke 

He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed, 

Another form, — a Darkness with a head. 

Then, in a rage, he shouted, "Who are you?" 

For little in the gloom he might discern. 
"Speak out; speak now; or I will make you rue 



Jt 




202 TllJi VKILIMS THAT CAM/' TRUE. 

The hour !" but there wtis silence, and a stern, 
Dark face from out the dusk ai)pearcd to k'uu. 
And then again drew back, and was not seen. 

" God ! " cried the (b'euiniiig ukui, ri<i,ht iiupioush', 
" What have 1 done, tliat these my sleej) alTray ? " 

" God ! " said tlie I'liantoni, '' I a[)peal to Thee, 
Appoint Tiiou )i!e this man to ])e my prey." 

" God ! " siglu!d the kneehng woman, frail and old, 

" I pray Tliee take me, for the world is cold." 

Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, 

" Fiend, I adjure thee, si)eak thine errand here ! " 

And lo ! it pointed intlie failing liglit 

Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, 

" Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer ; 

But first to tell lier tale that kneeleth there." 

" Her tale ! " the Justice cried. " A pauper's tale ! " 
And he took heart at this so low behest. 

And let the stoutness of his will prevail. 

Demanding, " Is't for licr you break my rest? 

She went to jail of late for stealing wood. 

(She will again for tiiis night's hardihocKl. 

" 1 sent her ; and to-morrow, as I live, 
1 will connnit her for this trespass here." 

" Tliou wilt not!" (juolli the Shadow, "thou wilt 
give 
Her story words ; " and then it stalked anear 

And showed a lowering facr, and, dread to see, 

A countenance of angered majesty. 

Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray, 
Willi tiiat material Darkness chiding him, 

" If tiiis must be, then speak to her, 1 pray. 
And bid her move, for all the room is dim 

By reason of the place she holds to-niglit : 

She kneels between me and the warmth and liuht.' 




=H 




HJ 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 203 

'' With adjurations deep and drawings strong, 
And with the power," it said, ''unto me given, 

I call upon tliee, man, to tell thy wroi'ig. 
Or l(jok no more up<^n tiie face of Heaven. 

Speak ! though she kneel throughout the livelong 
night, 

And yet shall kneel between thee and the light." 

This when the Justice heard, he raised his hands, 

And held them as the dead in clhgy 
Hold theirs, when carved ui)on a tonil). The l)ands 

Of fate had bound him fast : no remedy 
Was left: his voice unto himself was strange, 
And that unearthly vision did not change. 
He said, "That woman dwells anear my door, 

Her life and mine i)egan the seU'sanie day, 
And 1 am hale and hearty : from my store 

1 never spared her auglit : she takes her way 
Of me unheeded ; pining, pinching care 
Is all the portion that she has to share. 

"She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight. 

Through lal)or and through sorrow early old ; 
And I have known of this her evil plight. 

Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold : 
A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found : 
She labored on my land the long year lound. 
" What wouldst thou have me say, thou Fiend ab- 
horred ? 

Show me no more thine awful visage grim. 
If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord 

That I have paid her wages. Cry to liiin I 
He has not mvch against me. None can say 
I have not paid her wages day by da}'. 
" The spell I It draws me. I must speak again ; 

And speak against myself; and si)eak aloud. 



l\ 




A 



1 




204 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRC/E. 

The womfin once approached me to complain, — 

' My wages ai'e so low.' I may be proud ; 
It is a fault." "Ay," quoth the Phantom fell, 
'' Sinner ! it is a fault : thou sayest well." 

" She made her moan, ' My wages are so low.' " 
"Tell on!" "She said," he answered, "'My 
best days 

Are ended, and the summer is but slow 

To come ; and my good strength for work decays 

By reason that I live so hard, and lie 

On winter nights so bare for poverty.' " 

" And yon replied." — began the loweriug Shade, 
"And I replied," the Justice followed ou, 

" That wages like to mine my neighbor paid ; 
And if I raised the wages of the one 

Straight should the others murmur ; furthermore, 

The winter was as winters gone before. 



Afterward ? " — 
"Afterward." he 



" No colder and not longer." 

The Phantom questioned, 
groaned, 
" She said my neighbor was a right good lord, 

Never a roof was broken that he owned ; 
He gave much coal and clothing. ' Doth he so? 
Work for my neighbor, then,' 1 answered, • Go! 

" ' You are full welcome.' Then she muml)led out 
She hoped I was not angrv ; hoped, forsooth, 

I would forgive her : and I turned about. 
And said I should be angry in good truth 

If this should be again, or ever more 

She dared to stop me thus at the church door." 

"Then?" quoth the Shade; and he, constrained, 
said on, 
"Then she, reproved, curtseyed herself away." 



N^EF 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 205 

" Hast met her since?" it made demand anou ; 
And after pause the Justice answered, "• Ay ; 
Some wood was stolen ; my people made a stir : 
She was accused, and I did sentence her." 

But yet, and yet. the dreaded questions came : 
•'And didst thou weigh the matter, — taking 
thought 

Upon her sober life and honest fame ? " 

" I gave it," he replied, with gaze distraught ; 

" I gave it. Fiend, the usual care ; I took 

The usual pains ; I could not nearer look, 

" Because — because their pilfering had got head. 

What wouldst thou more ? The neighbors pleaded 
hard, 
'Tis true, and many tears the creature shed ; 

But I had vowed their praj'ers to disregard. 
Heavily strike tlie first tliat robbed my land. 
And put down thieving with a steady hand. 

" She said she was not guilty. Ay, 'tis true 
She said so, but the poor are liars all. 

O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou? Must I view 
Thy darkness yet, and must thy shadow fall 

Upon me miserable ? I have done 

No worse, no more than many a scathless one." 

" Yet," quoth the Shade, " if ever to thine ears 
The knowledge of her blamelessness was brought, 

Or others have confessed with dying tears 

The crime she suffered for, and thou hast wrought 

All reparation in thy power, and told 

Into her empty hand thy brightest gold : — 

'•'• If thou hast honored her, and hast proclaimed 

Her innocence and thy deplored wrong. 
Still thou art naught ; for thou shnlt vet be blamed 



^a==^ ^^=^-c y 



2o6 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



Ill tlinl slit', fi'i'hlc, came Itt'Torc thee, stroiii;', 
And thou, ill cnu'l luisle Lo deal :i blow, 
lii'causo thou htulst bcon augeivd, worked her woe. 

" l)Ul didst I lion liiiiit her? Speaiv ! " The -lustiee 
isijihed. 

And beaded drops stood out upon his brow ; 
"• How could 1 iiuiiil)K' me," forlorn lie cried, 

"■ 'Po a base beo«>ar? Nay, J will tivovv 
Thai I did iU. I will reveal the wiiole ; 
I kept (hat kiiowle(li;-e in my secret soul." 

'■'•Hear liiiii ! " the riiantom miitlered ; '•'hear tiiis 
man, 

() changeless God upon the judgment throne." 
AVith that, cold tremors throuiih his pulses ran, 

.\iid lameutnbly he did makt' his moan ; 
While, with its arms upriiised above his head. 
The dim drend visitor iipproached his bed. 

" Into these doors," it said, " whicii thou hast closed, 
Daily this woman shall from henceforth come; 

Her kneeliiig form shall yet be interposed. 

Till all lliy wretched hours lia\e told their sum, — 

Shall yet be intt'r[)()sed by day, by ni<iht, 

lU'tween thee, siuuer. and the warmth and liulit. 

" ]\emembraiice of lu'r want shall make thy meal 
Like ashes, und thy wrong thou shalt not right. 

Hut what! Nay. verily, nor wi'alth nor weal 
From henceforth shall afioi'd thy soul delight. 

Till men slitill l:iy thy head lieiieath the sod. 

There shall lie wo deliveraiici', sailli my (iod." 

" Tt'll me thy uaine," the di-eamiiig .Justice cried; 

" By what appointment dost thou doom me thus?" 
" 'Tis well that thou shouldst know me." it replied, 

"■ For mini' llioii art. and naugiit shall sevi>r us ; 




A.-,.. 



'• Before her dying embers, bent and pale, 
A woman sat because her bed was cold." — Pai^e 207. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 207 

From thine own lijis find life I draw my force : 
The name thy nation give me is Remorse." 

This when he heard, the dreaming man cried out, 
And woke attrigiited ; and a crimson glow 

The dying ember shed. Within, without. 
In eddying rings the silence seemed to flow ; 

The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone 

The last low gleam ; he was indeed alone. 

"■ O, I have had a fearful dream," said he ; 

"• I will take warning and for mercy trust; 
The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with me : 

I will repair that wrong, I will be just, 
I will be kind, I will my ways amend." 
Now the first dream is told unto its end. 

Anigh the frozen mere a cottage stood, 

A piercing wind swept round and shook the door, 

The shrunken door, and easy way made good. 
And drave long drifts of snow along the floor. 

It sparkled there like diamonds, for the moon 

Was shining in, and night was at the noon. 

Before her dying embers, bent and pale, 
A woman sat because her bed was cold ; 

She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail, 
And she was hunger-bitten, weak, and old ;* 

Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook. 

Upon her trembling knees she held a book — 

A comfortable book for them that mourn. 
And good to raise the courage of the poor ; 

It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourne, 
Their Elder Brother, from His home secure. 

That for them desolate He died to win. 

Repeating, " Come, ye blessed, enter in." . 



fS 






rt 



208 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

AVhat thought she on, this wonum ? on licr days 
Of toil, or on tlie snp[)erless night forhjru? 

T think not so ; the heart but seldom wi'iglis 
With couscious care a burden always borne ; 

And she was used to these things, had grown old 

In fellowshi[) witii toil, hunger, and cold. 

Then did she think how sad it was to live 
Of all till' go(xl this world can yield bereft? 

No, her untutored thoughts she did not give 
To such a theme ; but in their warp and weft 

She wove a prayer : then in the midnight deep 

Faintly and slow slie fell away to sleei). 

A strange, a, marvellous sleep, which brought a dream, 
And it was this : that all at once she heard 

The pleasant babbling of a little stream 
That ran lieside her door, and then a bird 

BroJce out in songs. She looked, and lo ! the rime 

And snow liad melted ; it was summer time ! 

And all the cold was ovei\ and the mere 

Full sweetly swayed the Hags and rushes green ; 

The mellow sunlight poured right warm and clear 
Into her casement, and tliereby were seen 

Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees 

"Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees. 

She said. •• I will betake me to my door. 

And will look out and see this wondrous sight, 

How sunnner is come ])ack, and frost is o'er, 
And all the air warm waxen in a night." 

With that she opened, but for fear she cried. 

For lo ! two Angels, — one on either side. 

And while she looked, witli marvelling measureless. 
The Angels stood conversing face to face, 

But neither si)()ke to her. '• The wilderness," 
One Angel said. " tlie solitary plact". 



XT" 



M 



^ 



T//E DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 209 

Shall yet be glad for Him." And then full fain 
The other Angel answered, " He shall reign." 

And when the woman heard, in wondering wise, 
She whispered, " They are speaking of my Lord." 

And straightway swept across the open skies 
Multitudes like to these. They took the word, 

That flock of Angels, " He shall come again, 

My Lord, my Lord!" they s.ang, "and He shall 
reign ! " 

Then they, drawn up into the blue o'erhead, 
Right hap[)y, shining ones, nuule haste to flee ; 

And those l)efore lier one to other said, 

" Behold He stands aneath yon almond-tree." 

This when tlie woman heard, she fain had gazed. 

But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed. 

After she looked, for this her dream was deep ; 

She looked, and there was naught beneath the tree ; 
Yet did her love and longing overleap 

The fear of Angels, awful though they be. 
And she passed out between the blessed things, 
And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings. 

O, all tlie happy world was in its best. 

The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers, 
And these were drop[)ing honey ; for the rest. 

Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers ; 
Across the grass did groups of Angels go. 
And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro. 

Then did she pass toward the almond-tree. 
And none she saw beneath it : yet each Saint 

Upon his coming meekly bent the knee, 

And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. 

And then a 'lighting Angel neared the place. 

And folded his fair winiis before his face. 



^ 



2IO TNE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

She also knelt, and spread her aged hands 
As feeling for the sacred hnman feet ; 

She said, " ]Mine eyes are held, but if He stands 
Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat 

Except He bless me." Then, O sweet! O fair! 

Some vvords were spoken, but she knew not where. 

She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke, 
Or dropt upon her from the realms above ; 

" AVhat wilt thou, woman ? " in the dream He spoke ; 
'' Thy sorrow moveth Me, tln'self I love ; 

Long have I counted up thy mournful years. 

Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears." 

She said, " M\' one Redeemer, only blest, 

I know Thy voice, and from my 3'earning heart 

Draw out my deep desire, my great request, 
My prayer, that I might enter where Tliou art. 

Call me, O call from this world troublesome. 

And let me see Thy face." He answered, " Come." 

Here is the ending of the second dream. 

It is a frost}" morning, keen and cold, 
Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream. 

And snow lies s[)arkling on the desert wold ; 
AVith savory morning meats they spread the board, 
But Justice AYilvermore will walk abroad. 

" Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as one in haste, 
"Before you breakfast, sir?" his mnn replies. 

" Ay," quoth he, quickly, and he will not taste 
Of aught before him, but in urgent wise. 

As he would fain some carking care allay, 

Across the frozen field he takes his way. 

" A dream ! how strange that it should move me sc 
'Twas but a dream," quoth Justice AVilvermore : 

'■ And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure know, 
For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore ; 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 211 

Silver and gear the crone shall ha\e of me, 
And dwell for life in yonder cottage free. 

" E'or visions of the night are fearful things, 
Remorse is dread, though merely in a dream ; 

I will not subject me to visitings 

Of such a sort again. I will esteem 

My peace above my pride. From natures rude, 

A little gold will buy me gratitude. 

' ' The woman shall have leave to gather wood 
As much as she ma}- need, the long year round ; 

She shall, I say ; moreover, it were good 
Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. 

Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore, 

And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore. 

With that he nears the door : a frosty rime 
Is branching over it, and drifts are deep 

Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time — 
(For none doth open), — time to list the sweep 

And whistle of the wind along the mere. 

Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sear. 

" If she be out, I have my pains for naught," 
He saith, and knocks again, and yet once more, 

But to his ear nor step nor stir is brouglit ; 
And, after pause, he doth unlatch the door 

And enter. No ; she is not out, for see, 

She sits asleep 'midst frost-work winterly. 

Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, 
Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. 

"What, dame," he saith, and comes toward her 
straight, 
" Asleep so early ! " But whate'er befall. 

She sleepeth ; then he nears her, and behold 

Hc^ lays a hand on hers, and it is cold. 



z\ 



212 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



Theu doth the Justice to his home return ; 

From that day forth he wears a sadder brow ; 
His hands are opened, and his heart doth iearn 

Tlie patience of tlie poor. He made a vow 
And keeps it, for the old and sick have shared 
His gifts, tlieir sordid homes lie hath repaired. 

And some he hath made happy, but for liim 
Is happiness no more. He doth repent, 

And now tlie light of joy is waxen dim, 
Are all his steps toward the Highest sent ; 

He looks for mercy, and he waits release 

Above, for this world doth not yield him peace. 

Night after night, night after desolate night, 
Day after day, day after tedious day, 

Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy light, 
Pacetli behind or meets him in the way ; 

Or shares the path by hedge-rcjw, mere, or stream. 

The visitor tliat doomed him in his dream. 



Thy kingdom come. 
I heard ;i Seer cry : "The wilderness, 

The solitary place. 
Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bless 
(Thy kingdom come) with His revealed face 
The forests ; they shall drop their precious gum. 
And shed for Him their balm : and He shall yield 
The grandeur of His speech to charm the field. 

'* Then all the soothed winds shall drop to listen, 

(Thy kingdom come,) 
Comforted waters waxen calm shall glisten 
With basliful tremblement beneath His smile : 

And Echo ever tlie while 
Shall take, and in her awful jo}' repeat, 



-t— J 



SOATGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 213 

The laughter of His lips^ — (Thy kingdom come) : 
And hills that sit apart shall be no longer dumb ; 

No, they shall shout and shout, 
Raining their lovel}' loyalty along the dewy plain : 

And valleys round about, 

" And All the well-contented land, made sweet 

With flowers she opened at His feet. 
Shall answer ; shout and mal^e the welkin ring. 
And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing ; 

Her cup being full to the brim. 

Her poverty made rich with Him, 
Her yearning satisfied to its utmost sum — 
Lift up thy voice, O Earth, prepare thy song, 

It shall not yet be long, 
Lift up, O Earth, for He shall come again. 
Thy Lord ; and He shall reign, and He shall reign, — 

Thy kingdom come." 



so:ngs on the voices of birds. 

introduction. 

Child and Boatman. 

" Martin, I wonder who makes all the songs." 
'' You do, sir?" 

" Yes, I wonder how they come." 
"Well, boy, I wonder what you'll wonder next ! " 
" But somebody must make them?" 

" Sure enough." 
" Does your wife know? " 

" She never said she did." 
" You told me that she knew so many things." 
" I said she was a London woman, sir. 
And a fine scholar, but I never said 
She knew about the songs." 



-t—^ 



214 SOJVGS OAT THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" I wish she did." 
" And I wish uo such thiug ; she knows enough, 
She knows too much aheady. Look you now, 
This vessel's off the stocks, a tid}" craft." 
" A schooner, Martin? " 

" No, boy, no ; a brig, 
Onh" she's schooner- rigged, — a lovely craft." 
" Is she for me? O, thank you, Martin, dear. 
What shall I call her?" 

'•' Well, sir, what 3'ou please." 
" Then write on her ' The Eagle.' " 

''Bless the child! 
Eagle ! why, you know naught of eagles, you. 
When we lay oft" the coast, up Canada way. 
And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, 
That was the place for eagles ; bald they were. 
With eyes as yellow as gold." 

" O Martin, dear, 
Tell me about them." 

" Tell ! there's naught to tell, 
Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." 
" Snored?" 

" Ay, I tell you, snored ; they slept upright 
In the great oaks by scores ; as true as time. 
If I'd had aught upon my mind just then, [gold ; 
I wouldn't have walked that wood for unknown 
It was most awful. When the moon was full, 
I've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch. 
When she got low. I've seen them plunge like 

stones. 
And come up fighting with a fish as long. 
Ay, longer than my arm ; and they would sail — 
When they had struck its life out — they would sail 
Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes. 
And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, aud speed 
Grand as a frigate on the wind." 



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THE HAUNT OF THE NIGHTINGALE. Page 21 = 



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THE NIGHTINGALE, ETC. 



215 



" My ship, 
>She must be culled ' The EaLile ' after these. 
And, Martui, ask your wife about the songs 
When you go in at dinner-time." 

"Not'l." 



THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UNSAT- 
ISFIED HEART. 

When in a May-day hush 
Chanteth the Missel-thrush, 
The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmur- 
ous stirs ; 
When Robin-redbreast sings. 
We tliink on budding springs, 
And Culvers when they coo are love's remembran- 
cers. 

But thou in the trance of light 

Stay est the feeding night. 
And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance 
wise, 

And casts at our glad feet, 

In a wisp of fancies fleet, 
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies. 

Her central thought full well 

Thou hast the wit to tell, 
To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so ; 

The moral of moonlight 

To set in a cadence bright. 
And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none 
did know. 

I have no nest as thou. 
Bird on the blossoming bough. 
Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, 



2l6 



SAND MARTINS. 



Chanting, '' Forego thy strife, 
The spirit out-acts the life. 
But MUCH is seldom theirs who can perceive the 

WHOLE. 

" Thou di'awest a perfect lot 

All thiue, but hoklen not, 
Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide ; 

There might be sorer smart 

Than thine, far-seeing heart. 
Whose fate is still to vearn, and not be satisfied." 



SAND iMARTTNS. 

I PASSED an inland-clitf [)recipitate ; 

From tiny caves peeped many a soot-black poll ; 
In each a mother-martin sat elate, 

And of the news delivered her small soul. 

Fantastic cliatter ! hasty, glad and gay, 
AVhereof the meaning was not ill to tell : 

" Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day?" 
"•Gossii), the world wags well, the world wags 
well." 

And hark'ning, I was sure their little ones 

Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made 

Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns. 
For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed ; — 

And visions of the sky as of a cup 

Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand. 
And quivering air-waves treml)ling up and uj). 

And blank stone faces marvellously bland. 

" When should the young be fledged and with them 
hie 
Where costly day drops down in crimson liglit? 



(^- 



]jj 



SAND MARTINS. 



217 



(Fortunate countries of the fire-fl}- 

Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultiy night, 

"And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) 
When should they pass again by that red land, 

Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem 
To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand ? 

"When should they dip their breasts again and play 
In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air. 

Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day, 
Stalking amid the lotos-blossom fair? 

" Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight. 
While cassias blossom in the zone of calms, 

And so betake them to a south sea-bight, 
To gossip in the ci'owns of cocoa-palms 

" Whose roots are in the spray. O, haply there 
Some dawn, white-wingdd they might chance to 
find 

A frigate, standing in to make more fair 
The loneliness unaltered of mankind. 

" A frigate come to water : nuts would fall, 

And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed 
strand, 

While northern talk would ring, and therewithal 
The martins would desire the cool north land. 

" And all would be as it had lieen before ; 

Again, at eve, there would be news to tell ; 
Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er, 

'Gossip, how wags the world?' 'Well, gossip, 
well.' " 



-t£. 



218 



A POET IX HIS YOUTH, AND 



,Tt 



A POET IX HIS YOrTH, AND THE CUCKOO- 
BIRD. 

Ukce upon a time. 1 lay 
Fast asleep at dawn of ilay ; 
Windows open to the st)atli, 
Fancy ponting her sweet mouth 
To my ear. 

She turneil a globe 
In her slender hand, her robe 
Was all spangled ; and she said, 
As she sat at my bed's head, 
"Poet, poet, what! asleep? 
Look ! the ray runs up the steep 
To your roof." Then in the golden 
Essence of romances oldi'u. 
Bathed she my entraucC^d heart. 
And she gave a hand to me, 
Drew me onward ; " Come ! " said slie ; 
And she moved with me a[)art. 
Down the lovely vale of Leisure. 

Such its name was, I heard sa}-, 
For some fairies trooped that way ; 
Common people of the place. 
Taking their accustomed pleasure 
(All the clocks being stopped), to race 
Down the slo[)e on palfreys fleet. 
Bridle bells made tinkling sweet ; 
And they said. " What signitied 
Faring home till eventide ; 
There were pies on every shelf. 
And the bread would bake itself." 
But for that I cared not. i^^^X, 
As it were, with angels' bread, 



1. 



THE CUCKOO-BIRD. 



219 



Sweet as honey ; yet next clay 
All foredoomed to melt away ; 
Gone before the sun waxed hot, 
Melted manna that ttvi.s not. 

Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, 
Or the starling'u courtship quauit. 
Heart made much of ; 'twas a boon 
Won from silence, and too soon 
Wasted in tlie ample air : 
Building rooks far distant were. 
Scarce at all would speak the rills, 
And 1 saw the idle hills. 
In their amber hazes deep, 
Fokl themselves and go to sleep, 
Though it was not yet high noon. 

Silence? Rather music brought 
From the spheres ! As if a thought, 
Having taken wings, did fly 
Through the reaches of the sky. 
Silence? No, a sumptuous sigh 
That had found embodiment. 
That had come across the deep 
After months of wintry sleep, 
And with tender heavings went 
Floating up the firmament. 

" O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, 

" 'Tis the voice of my regret, — 
■Mine!" and I awoke. Full sweet 
Saffron sun])eams did me greet ; 
And the voice it spake again. 
Dropped from yon blue cup of light 
Or some cloudlet swan's-down white 
On my soul, that drank full fain 
The sharp joy — the sweet pain — 



2^- 



,.^T^- 



-a 



220 A POET IN If IS YOUTH, AND 

Of its clear, vin'lit innocent, 
Ihircprovi^'d disconlcnt,. 
How il- came — nliei'c it went — 
Wiio can lell ! 'I'lie o|)i'n blue 
(^nivcM'cd with it, and I. too, 
'I'reinbled. I renienihcred nic 
or the s|)i'in<i,'s that nsed to he, 
Wiien a diniph'd whitv-haiicd chihl, 
Sliy and tt'nder and hall' wild. 
In the meadows I had heard 
Some way olT the talking' hii'd, 
And had felt it mai'\-ellons sweet, 
l'\)|- it lan<i,iied : it did me <ii'e(>t, 
Calling' me: yet, hid away 
In the woods, it wonld not play. 
No. 

And all the woild abont, 
While a man will work or sint;;. 
Or a child phick llowers of spi'ln;:;, 
'riion wilt scatter nnisic out, 
Uonse him with thy wanderini;- note, 
Cliangi'tnl fancies set alloat. 
Almost tt'l! with thy cit'ai' throat, 
I5nt not (piiti', the wonder-rife. 
Most sweet riddle, dark and dim, 
'Hiat he searcheth all his life. 
Si'ai'cheth yet, aiul ne\'r exponndeth ; 
And so, w'iiniowina; of thy win^s, 
Tonch and li-oiilile his heail's strings, 
That a certain nnisic sonndelh 
In that wondrous insti'innent. 
With a tremblino- npward sent, 
That is reckoned sweet above 
\\y till' (;ri'alness snniaiiied Love. 

"O, I hear thee in the bhu' ; 
Wonld that I niinlit win<>' it tool 



^ 



^ 



THE CUCKOO-BIRD. 



221 



^l 



i) to li;is»^ vvliiit lio|H! liulli seen ! 
(> to be, wW.il iiiiglit )i:iv(; Ixmmi ! 
(> to Hot Jiiy life, KW(;('t liird, 
'J'o a tiiiK; tliut ol't I licuid 
WIkmi I iiHCfl U) Ktaiid mIoik; 
Listen iiij4' to the l<n'(;ly inoun 
Of tlic swiiyinf^ jWncK o'(;rliejul, 
VVfiilc, M-g:it)i(;rin;4 of l»(!(;-lj|(;ii(i 
For their iiviiif^, nini'inurc^i n^uiul, 
Ah tiic polhui (ho|)|»e<l to gnjund, 
All the nations I'loni tin; hivcH ; 
And th(; litth; hroodinj^ wivon 
On (jiich nest, brown dusky thingB, 
Sat with j^(;ld-duHt on tlnjir wingH. 
Tlien beyonrl (more Hwect than all) 
Talked the tumbling waterfall ; 
And there; w(;r(;, and there were not 
(Ah might fall, and form anew 
lictll-himg dropH of hon(;y-dewj 
KehoeH of — I kntnv not what; 
Ah if Home right-joyouH elf, 
While about his own affairB, 
VV^histh^d softly othei'whei'eis. 
Nay, an if our inother d(;ar. 
Wrapt in Hun-warni atmoHphere, 
Laughed a little to lierHelf, 
Laughed a little aH Hh(; rolled, 
Thinking on the dayn of old. 

"Ah! there be some lufarts, I wis, 
To whieh nothing eomes amisH. 
Mine wan one. Miieh neciv t wealth 
I wan h(;ir to : and by ntcalth. 
When the moon wan fully grown, 
And Hhe thought herself alone, 
J have heard \\va\ :iv, right well. 
Shoot a silvei' nieHHaire down 



J j_].-4 -- - 





222 



A POET nV HJS YOUTH, ETC. 



To the uuseon sentiuel 

Of a still, snow-thatehed town. 

•• Once, awhile ago, 1 peered 
In the nest where Spring- was reared. 
There she. qnivering her fair wings. 
Flattered 3huvh with ehirrupings ; 
And they fed her : nights and davs. 
Fed her mouth witli nuieh sweet food, 
And her heart witli love anil praise, 
Till the wild thing rose and tlew 
Over woods and water-springs, 
Shaking (,>ff the morning dew 
In a rainbow from her wings. 

•• Onee {\ will to you confide 
]More\ — O, onee in forest wide, 
1. benighted, overheard 
Marvellous mild echoes stirred, 
And a calling half detined. 
And an answering from afar : 
Somewhat talked with a star. 
And the talk was of mankind. 

" ' Cuckoo, cuckoo ! ' 

Float anear in upper blue : 

Art thou yet a prophet true? 

Wilt thou say, • And having seen 

Things that be, and have not been. 

Thou art free o' the world, for naught 

Can despoil thee of thy thought ' ? 

Nay, but make me music yet, 

Hird, as deep as my regret ; 

For a certain hope hath set. 

Like a star, and left me heir 

To a crying for its light. 

An aspiring intinite. 

And a beautiful despair 1 



-)-^r 



s 



n 






II 



A RAVJiN IN A li-JIfl JC CHINE. 



223 



" All ! no more, no more, no more 
I Bhall lie at tli}' shut door, 
Mine ideal, iny desired, 
Dreaming tliou wilt open it, 
And step out, thou most admired. 
By my side to fare, or sit, 
QueneJjing hunger and all diouth 
With tlie wit of thy fair mouth, 
.Showing me the wished prize 
In the calm of thy dove's e^'es, 
Teaching me the wonder-rife 
Majesties of human life. 
All its fairest possiljje sum, 
And tlie grace of its to come. 

" What a difference ! Why of late 
All sweet music used to sa}', 
' She will come, and with thee stay 
To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' 
Now it rumors, ' Wait, wait, wait ! ' 



A llAVEX IX A WIiriE CinXE. 

I SAW, when I looked up, on either hand, 

A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft in white ; 

A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land, — 
Toward the sea, ai» open yawning bight. 

The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, 

Washed in the bight : above with angry moan 
A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view. 

Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. 
" Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wings. 

With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood. 
For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like 
things. 

Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food. 



224 



A RAl'EX LV A WHITE CHIXE. 



" Cry, thou black prophetess ! cr}-, and despair; 

Noue love thee, none ! Then- father was thy foe, 
Whose father in his youth did know thy lair, 

And steal thy little demons long ago. 

'• Thou madest many childless for their sake, 
And picked out man}" eyes that loved the light. 

Cry, thou black prophetess ! sit up, awake. 

Forebode : and ban them through the desolate 
night." 

Lo ! while I spake it, with a crimson hue 
The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, 

And all the clift's flushed red, and up she flew, 
The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood. 

" Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine. 
Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and late. 

It is not blood : thy gods are making wine, 
They spilt the must outside their city gate, 

" And stained their azure pavement with the lees : 
The}- will not listen though thou cry aloud. 

Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at her ease. 
Nor hears : the fair hag. Luck, is in her shroud. 

'"• They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign : 
Thou hast no charm against, the favorite race ; 

Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine : 
There is no justice in their dwelling-place I 

" Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest. 
Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie ; 

Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest : 

Cry, thou black prophetess ! lift up ! cry, cry ! " 



THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS. 



THE AVARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS. 

When I hear the waters frettiug, 
Wheu I see the chestnut letting 
All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, '' Alas 
the day ! " 
Once, with magical sweet singing. 
Blackbirds set the woodland ringing. 
That awakes no more while April hours wear them- 
selves away. 

In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, 
Sweet as air, and all beguiling ; 
And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and 
down the dell ; 
And we talked of joy and splendor 
That the years unborn would render, 
And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for 
they knew it vA^ell. 

Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming, 

April's here, and summer's coming ; 
Don't forget us wlien you walk, a man with men, in 
pride and joy ; 

Think on us in alleys shady. 

When you step a graceful lady ; [boy. 

For no fairer day have we to hope for, little girl and 

" Laugh and play, O lisping waters. 
Lull our downy sons and daughters ; 
Come, O wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy 
wanderings coy ; 
When they wake, we'll end the measure 
With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, 
And a ' Hey down derry, let's be merry ! little gir) 
and bov ! ' " 



HBx 



226 



SEA-iUEll'S IN WINTER TIME. 



SEA-:MEWS IX WINTER TIME. 

I WALKED beside a dark gray sea, 

And said, "O world, how cold thon art! 

Thou poor white w^orld, 1 pitv thee, 
For joy aud warmth from thee depart. 

" Yon rising wave licks off the snow, 
Winds on the crag each otlier chase, 

In Uttle powdery whirls they blow 
The misty fragments down its face. 

" The sea is cold, and dark its rim, 
Winter sits cowering on the wold, 

And I, beside this watery brim, 
Am also lonely, also cold." 

I spoke, and drew toward a rock. 

Where many mews made tw^ittering sweet ; 
Their wings upreared, the chistering flock 

Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. 

A rock but half submerged, the sea 
Ran up and washed it while they fed ; 

Their fond and foolish ecstacy 
A wondering in my fancy bred. 

Joy companied with every cry, 

Joy in their food, in that keen wind. 

That heaving sea, that shaded sky. 
And in themselves, and in their kind. 

The phantoms of the deep at play I 

WHiat idless graced the twittering things ; 

Luxurious paddlings in the spray. 
And delicate lifting up of wings. 



^^ 



w 



LAURANCE. 



227 



Then all at once a flight, and fast 
The lovely crowd flew out to sea ; 

If mine own life had been recast, 

Earth had not looked more changed to me. 

' ' Where is the cold ? Yon clouded skies 
Have only dropped their curtains low 

To shade the old mother where she lies, 
Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow. 

" The cold is not in crag, nor scar, 
Not in the snows that lap the lea, 

Not in your wings that beat afar, 
Delighting, on the crested sea ; 

" No, nor in 3'on exultant wind 

That shakes the oak and bends the pine. 
Look near, look in, and thou shalt find 

No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine ! " 

With that I felt the gloom depart. 
And thoughts within me did unfold. 

Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart : 
I wallied in joy, and was not cold. 



LAURANCE. 



He knew she did not love him ; but so long 

As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt 

At ease, and did not find his love a pain. 

He had much deference in his nature, need 

To honor, — it became him : he was frank, 

Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and strong, — 

Looked all things straight in the face. So when she 

came 
Before him first, he looked at her, and looked 



-h^ 



LAU RANGE. 



!No iiioro, but colored to his healthful brow, 

Aud wished himself ;i better iu:u), and thouuht 

On certahi things, and wished thev weie untlone, 

Because her girlish innocence, the grace 

Of her unblemished pureuess, wrought in him 

A longing and aspiring, and a shame 

To think how wicked was the world, — that world 

AVhich he nuist walk in. — while from her (and such 

As she was) it was hidden ; there was made 

A clean path, and the girl moved on like one 

In some enchanted ring. 

In his Young heart 
She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, 
And all the virtues that he rightly took 
For granted ; there he set her with her crown, 
And at her lirst enthronement he turned out 
Much that was best away, for unaware 
His thought.s grew noble. She was always there 
And knew it not, and he grew like to her. 
Aud like to what he thought her. 

Now he dwelt 
With kin that loved him well, — two line old folk, 
A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame. — 
Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. 
To these one daughter had been born, one child, 
And as she grew to woman, •• Look." they said, 
"■ She nuist not leave us ; let us build a wing. 
"With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange ; 
There may she dwell, with her gooil man. and all 
God sends them." Then the girl in her lirst youth 
Married a curate.- — handsome, poor in purse, 
Of gentle blood aud manners, anil he lived 
Under her father's roof, as they had plainied. 

Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled 
The house with chihh'en : four werr lioi'u to them. 



rn 



-1-^ 



Jt 



LAU RANGE. 



229 



Then came a sickly season ; fever spread 
Among tlie poor. The cuiate, never shick 
In duty, praying by the sick, or, worse, 
Burying tlie dead, when all the air was clogged 
With poisonous mist, was stricken ; long he lay 
Sick, almost to the death, and when his head 
He lifted from the pillow, there was left 
One only of tliat pretty flock : his girls, 
His three, were cold beneatli the sod ; his boy. 
Their eldest born, remained. 

The drooping w\fe 
Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise. 
That first they marvelled at her, then they tried 
To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief. 
Lamenting, and not sparing ; but she sighed, 
" Let me alone, it will not be for long." 
Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, 
" Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon. 
O, when you see this other little face. 
You will, please God, be comforted." 

She said, 
'' I shall not live to see it ; " Init slie did, — 
A little sickly face, a wan, thin face. 
Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bright 
When she would plead with them, " Take me awa}', 
Let me go south ; it is the bitter blast 
That chills my tender babe ; she cannot thrive 
Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." 
Then they all journeyed south together, mute 
With past and coming sorrow, till the sun, 
In gardens edging the blue tideless main, 
Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts, 
And all went better for a wiiile ; but not 
For long. They sitting by the orange-trees 
Once I'ested, and the wife was very still: 



<^-i- 



[I 



230 



LAU RANGE. 



A woman with narcissus flowers liea[)ed up 
Let down her basket from her head, but paused 
With pitviug gesture, and drew near and stooped, 
Taking a white wild face upon her breast. 
The little babe on its poor mother's knees, 
None marking it, none knowing else, had died. 

The fading mother could not stay behind, 
Her heart was broken ; but it awed them most 
To feel they must not, dared not, pray for life. 
Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly. 
After, these three, who loved each other well. 
Brought their one child away, and the^" were best 
Together in the wide old grange. Full oft 
The father with the mother talked of her. 
Their daughter, but the husband nevermore ; 
He looked for solace in his work, and gave 
His mind to teach his boy. And time went on, 
Until the grandsire prayed those other two, 
" Now part with him ; it must be ; for his good : 
He rules and knows it ; choose for him a school. 
Let him have all advantages, and all 
Good training that should make a gentleman." 

With that they parted from their boy, and lived 
Longing between his holidays, and time 
Sped ; he grew on till he had eighteen years. 
His father loved him, wished to make of him 
Another parson ; but the farmer's wife 
JNIurmured at that — ' ' No, no, they learned bad ways. 
Tliey I'an in debt at college ; she had heard 
That many rued the day they sent their boys 
To college ; " and between the two broke in 
His grandsire, '' Find a sol)er, honest man, 
A scholar, for our lad should see the world 
While he is young, that he may marry young. 
He will not settle and be satisfied 



^, 




LAURANCE. 



231 



Till he has run about the world awhile. 

Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth, 

And had no chance to do it. Send him off, 

A sober man being found to trust him with, — 

One with the fear of God before his eyes." 

And he prevailed ; the careful father chose 

A tutor, young, the worthy matron thought, — 

In truth, not ten years older than her boy. 

And glad as he to range, and keen for snows, 

Desert, and ocean. And they made strange choice 

Of where to go, left the sweet day behind. 

And pushed up north in whaling ships, to feel 

What cold was, see the blowing whale come up, 

And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet sun 

Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg. 

Then did the trappers have them ; and they heard 

Nightly the whistling calls of forest-men 

That mocked the forest wonders ; and tlie}' saw 

Over the open, raging up like doom. 

The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes — 

The bisons. So were three years gone like one ; 

And the old cities drew them for awliile. 

Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine ; 

They have hid many sons hard by their seats. 

But all the air is stirring with them still. 

The waters nuirmur of them, skies at eve 

Are stained with their rich blood, and ever}- sound 

Means men. 

At last, the fourth 3'ear running out, 
The youth came home. And all the cheerful house 
Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame 
Was full of joy. But in the father's heart 
Abode a painful doubt. " It is not well ; 
He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. 
I do not care that my one son should sleep 



-^E^ 



232 



LAU RANGE. 



Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake 
Only to ride to cover." 

Not the less 
The grandsire pondered. " Ay, the boy must avoek 
Or SPEND ; and I must let him spend ; just stay 
Awhile with us, and tlien from time to time 
Have leave to be away with those fine folk 
With whom, these many years, at school, and now. 
During his sojourn in the foreign towns. 
He has been made familiar." Thus a month 
Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth. 
The quick elastic step, and joyous mind. 
Ever expectant of it knew not what, 
But something higher than has e'er been born 
Of eas}' slumber and sweet competence. 
And as for him, the while they thought and thought 
A comfortal)le instinct let him know 
How they had waited for him, to complete 
And give a meaning to their lives ; and still 
At home, but with a sense of newness there, 
And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days. 
He oft — invading of his father's haunts. 
The study where he passed the silent morn — 
A\'ould sit, devouring with a greedy joy 
The piled-up books, uncut as yet; or wake 
To guide with him by niglit the tube, and search, 
Ay, think to find new stars ; then, risen betimes. 
Would ride about the farm, and list the talk 
Of his hale grandsire. 

But a day came round. 
When, after peering in his mother's room. 
Shaded and shuttered from the light, he'oped 
A door, and found the rosy grandmother 
Ensconced and happy in her special pride, 
Her storeroom. She was corking syrui)s rare. 
And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. 




LAU RANGE, 



233 



Here, after choice of certain cates well known, 
He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease, 
Sang as he watched her, till, right suddenly, 
As if a new thought came, '' Goody," quoth he, 
'"'• What, think you, do they want to do with me? 
What have the^- planned for me that I should do? " 

" Do, laddie ! " quoth she, faltering, half in tears ; 
' ' Are you not happj' with us ? not content ? 
Why would ye go away ? There is no need 



That ye should do at all. 
Have we not plenty?" 

" I did not wish to go." 



O, bide at home. 



Even so," he said ; 



" Nay, then," quoth she, 
" Be idle ; let me see your blessed face. 
What, is the horse your father chose for you 
Not to your mind? He is? Well, well, remain; 
Do as you will, so you but do it here. 
You shall not want for money." 

But, his arms 
Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth 
With comical discomfiture. 

" What, then," 
She sighed, "what is it, child, that you would like? " 
" Why," said he, " farming," 

And she looked at him 
Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find 
Some fitness in the worker for the work. 
And she found none. A certain grace there was 
Of movement, and a beauty in the face. 
Sun-browned and healthful beauty, that had come 
From his grave father ; and she thought, " Good lack, 
A farmer ! he is fitter for a duke. 



[I 



jii ■ 



-m 



234 



LAU RANGE. 



He walks — why, how he walks! if 1 should meet 
One like him, whom I knew not, 1 should ask, 
' And who may that be?' " 80 the foolish thought 
Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half 

ashamed, 
" We planned to make of you — a gentleman." 
And, with engaging sweet audacity, — 
She thought it nothing less, — he, looking u[). 
With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her. 
"And haven't you done it?" Quoth she, lovingly, 
" I think we liave, laddie ; I think we have." 
" Then," quoth he, "1 may do what best I like ; 
It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise 
To helj) nfti in it, and to let me farm ; 
1 think of getting into mischief else ! " 
"No ! do ye, laddie ? " quoth the dame, and laughed. 
" lUit ask my grandfatlier," the youth went on, 
" To let me have the farm he bought last year, 
The little one, to manage. 1 like land ; 
I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way. 
Convinced ; and promised, and made good her word, 
And that same night upon the matter spoke, 
In presence of tlie father and the son. 




" Roger," quoth she, " our Laurance wants to farm ; 

I think he might do worse." The father sat 

Mute, but right glad. The grandson, breaking in. 

Set all his wish and his ambition forth ; 

But cunningly the old man hid his joy. 

And made conditions with a faint demur. 

Then, i)ausing, " Let your father speak," quoth he ; 

" I am content if he is." At his word 

The parson took him ; ay, and, parson like, 

Put a I'eligious meaning in tlie work, 

"",iii'< (Mrliesl work, and wished his son God speed. 




LAU RANGE. 



Thus all were satisfied, and, day by day, 
For two sweet years a happy course was theirs ; 
Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young 
Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife, — 
A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen 
Of sight and hearing to the delicate 
Beauty and music of an altei-ed world — 
Began to walk in that mysterious light 
AVhich doth reveal aud yet transform ; which gives 
Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, 
Intenser meaning ; in disquieting- 
Lifts up ; a shining light : men call it Love. 
Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved ; 
A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. 
She never turned from him with sweet caprice, 
Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope, 
Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low. 
But excellent in youthful grace came up ; 
Aud, ere his words were ready, passing on, 
Had left him all a-tremble ; yet made sure 
That by her own true will, and fixed intent, 
She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit 
He knew she did not love him, yet so long 
As of a rival unaware, he dwelt 
All in the present, without fear, or hope, 
Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love. 
And could not get his head above its wave 
To search the far horizon, or to mark 
Whereto it drifted him. 

So long, so long ; 
Tlien, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, 
Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale 
All in the tolling out of noon. 

'Twas thus : 
Snow-time was come ; it had been snowing h:ird ; 



rr. 



v^ 



!36 



LAURANCE. 



Across tlie church -yard path he waHied ; the clock 
Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, 
Half tiiniiug, thrcjuglj a sense that came to liim 
As of some presence in it, he beheld 
His love, and she liad come for shelter there ; 
And all her face was fair with rosy bloom. 
The blush of happiness ; and one held up 
Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped 
Toward it, sitting by her. O, her eyes 
Were full of peace and tender light : they looked 
One moment in the ungraced lover's face 
While he was passing in the snow ; and he 
Received the story, while he raised his hat 
Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, 
And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on ; 
And in a certain way he marked the snow, 
And walked, and came upon the open heath ; 
And in a certain way he marked the cold, 
And walked as one that had no starting-place 
Might walk, but not to any certain goal. 

And he strode on toward a hollow part. 
Where from the hillside gravel had been dug. 
And he was conscious of a cry, and went, 
Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not ; 
Till a small farm-house drudge, a half-grown girl. 
Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay 
Against the bushes, crying, " God ! O God, 
O my good God, He sends us help at last." 

Then, looking hard upon her, came to him 
The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth 
Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering tailed. 
And ill her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child 
That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes. 
" I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears : 
" Kind sir, kind sir," and she lield out the child. 



/^.. 




LAURANCE. 



m 



As prayiiig him to take it ; and he did ; 

And gave to hef the sliawl, and swatlied Iiis eliarge 

In tae foldings of hi.s phud ; and wlien it tlnnist 

Its small ronud face against his breast, and felt 

With small red hands for warmth, nnbearable 

Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, 

For the poor upland dwellers had been out 

Since morning dawn, at early milking-tirae, 

Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, 

Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, 

Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on. 

That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child 

Had motherly cared to shield. So toilino- throuo-h 

The great wiiite storm coming, and coming yet, 

And coming till the world confounded sat 

With all her lair familiar features gone. 

The mountains mnfHed in an eddying swirl, 

He led or bore them, and the little one [mourn 

Peered from her shelter, pleased ; but oft v/ould 

The elder, "They will beat me : O my cau, 

I left my can of milk upon the moor." 

And he compared her trouble with his own, 

And had no heart to speak. And yet 'twas keen ; 

It filled her to the putting down of pain 

And hunger, — what could his do more? 

He brought 
The children to their home, and suddenly 
Regained himself, and, wondering at himself, 
That he had borne, and yet been dunib so long, 
The weary wailing of the girl, he paid 
Money to buy her pardon ; heard them say, 
" Peace, we have feai-ed for you ; forget the milk, 
It is no matter ! " and went forth again 
And waded in the snow, and quietly 
Considered in his patience what to do 
With all the dull remainder of his days. 



238 LAU RANGE. 



With dusk he was at home, aud felt it good 

To hear liis kindred talking, for it broke 

A mocking endless echo in his soul, 

" It is no matter ! " and he could not choose 

But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame 

His spirit, "• Peace, it is no matter; peace, 

It is no matter ! " For he felt that all 

AVas as it had been, and his father's heart 

Was easy, knowing not how that same day 

Hope with her tender colors and delight 

(He should not care to have him know) were dead ; 

Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear. 

It was no matter. And he heard them talk 

Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields. 

And profitable markets. 

All for him 
Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam 
About his head, whenever there was pause ; 
" It is no matter ! " And his greater self 
Arose in him and fouglit. *•• It matters much, 
It matters all to these, that not to-day 
Nor ever they should know it. I will hide 
The wound : ay, hide it with a sleepless care. 
What ! shall I make these three ^o drink of rne- 
Because my cup is bitter?" And he thrust 
Himself in thought away, and made his ears 
Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem 
Another, to make answer, when they spoke. 
As there had been no snow-storm, and no porch, 
And no despair. 

So this went on awhile 
Uuti' *\ie snow had melted from the wold. 
And he. one noonday, wandering up a lane. 
Met on a turn the woman whom lie loved. 
Then, even to trembling he was moved ; his speech 
Faltered ; but, when the common kindly words 



LAURANCE. 



239 



Of greeting were all said, and she passed ou, 
He could not bear her sweetness and his pain. 
" Muriel ! " lie cried ; and when she heard her name., 
She turned. ''You know I love you," he broke out : 
She answered, "Yes," and sighed. 

" O, pavdon me, 
Pardon me," quoth the lover ; "let me rest 
In certainty, and hear it from your mouth : 
Is he with whom I saw 30U ouce of late 
To call you wife? " "I hope so," she replied ; 
And over all her face the rose-bloom came. 
As, thinking on that other, unaware 
Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, 
Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, 
Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, 
A quickened sense of his great impotence 
To drive away the doom got hold on him ; 
He set his teeth to force the unbearable 
Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes 
Plashed as with flame. 

And she, all overawed 
And mastered by his manhood, waited yet. 
And trembled at the deep she could not sound ; 
A passionate nature in a storm ; a heart 
Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp 
Of an immortal love. 

" Farewell," he said. 
Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, 
" My thanks for your good candor ; for I feel 
That it has cost you something." Then, the blush 
Yet on her face, she said : " It was your due : 
But keep this matter from your friends and kin, 
We would not have it known." Then, cold and 

proud. 
Because there leaped from under his straight lids. 




\/ 



Ix 



240 



LAURANCE. 



And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise, — 
" lie wills it, and I therefore think it well." 
Thereon they parted ; but from that time forth, 
Whether they met on festal eve, in field. 
Or at the church, she ever bore herself 
Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain ; 
The disapproval hastily betrayed 
And quickly hidden hurt her. " 'Twas a grace," 
She thought, " to tell this man the thing he asked. 
And he rewards me with surprise. I like 
No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed 
Where he bestowed it." 

But the spring came on : 
Looking to wed in April, all her thoughts 
Grew loving ; she would fain the world had waxed 
More happy with her happiness, and oft 
Walking among the flowery woods she felt 
Their loveliness reach down into her heart, 
And kiiew with them the ecstasies of growth. 
The rapture that was satislied with light, 
The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite 
Expansion, through the lovely, longed-for spring. 

And as for him — (Some narrow hearts there are 

That suffer blight when that they are fed upon. 

As something to complete their being, fails, 

And the}^ retire into their holes and pine, 

And long restrained grow stern. But some there are 

That in a sacred want and hunger rise. 

And draw the misery home and live with it. 

And excellent in honor wait, and will 

That somewhat good should yet be found in it. 

Else wherefore were they born?) — and as for him, 

He loved her, but his peace and welfare made 

The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange 

Threw open wide its hospitable doors 



LAURANCE. 



241 



And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, 
Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. 
In him the e^yes at liome were satisfied, 
And if lie did but laugh the ear approved. 

What then? He dwelt among them as of old, 
And taught his mouth to smile. 

And time went on. 
Till on a morning, when the perfect Spring 
Rested among her leaves, he, journeying home 
After short sojourn in a neighboring town, 
Stopped at the little station on the line 
That ran between his woods ; a lonely place 
And quiet, and a woman and a child 
Got out. He noted them, but, walking on 
Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled 
By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, 
And she v/as sitting on a rustic seat 
That overlooked the line, and he desired. 
With longing indescribable, to look 
Upon her face again. And he drew near. 
She was right happ}' ; she was waiting there. 
He felt tliat she was waiting for her lord. 
She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed. 
But answered when he spoke, aud dropped her cheek 
In her fair hand. 

And he, not able yet 
To force himself away, and nevermore 
Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose (lowers. 
And wild anemone, for many a clump 
Grew all about him, and the hazel rods 
Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard 
The stopping train, and felt that he must go ; 
His time was come. There was naught else to do 
Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near, 



Jfl 



242 



LAU RANGE. 



Ami woiilil li:ive had her lake il Troin his hand ; 

But she, half lost iu thought, held out her own, 

And then, reuiemberiug him and his long love, 

She said. " I thank you ; pray you now forget. 

Forget nie, Lauranee," and her lovel}' eyes 

Softened ; but he was dunil>. till througii the trees 

Suddenly broke ui)on their (juietude 

The woman and her child. And JMuriel said. 

" What will you ?" She made answer quick and keen, 

" Your name, my lady ; 'tis your name I want. 

Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased. 

But with a musing sweetness on lier mouth, 

As if considering in how short a while 

It would be changed, she lifted up her face 

And ga\'e it, and the little child drew near 

And pulled her gown, antl [jrayed her for the flowers. 

Then Laurence, not content to leave them so, 

Nor yet to wait the coming lover, s[)oke : 

'' Your errand with this lady?" — " And youi right 

To ask it?" she broke out with sndden heat 

And passion : '' What is that to you? I'oor chih? I 

Madam ! " And ]Murii'l lifted up her face 

And looked, — they looked into each other's eyes. 

" That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman 

cried, — 
" That man with whom you think to w^ed so soon. — - 
You must not heed him. What ! the world is full 
Of men, and some are good, and most, Goil knows. 
Better than he, — that I should say it ! — far 
Better." And down her face the large tears ran, 
And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up, 
Taking a terrible meaning from hei' words ; 
And Lauranee stared about him. half in doubt 
If this were real, for all things wi're so Itlithe, 
And soft air tossed the little flowers al)out ; 
The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped. 



M- 



-F^ 



Hi 



LAU RANGE. 



243 



Glad ill fair sunshine. And the women both 
Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes. 

He found his voice, and spoke : " This is not well. 
Though whom you speak of should have done you 

wrong ; 
A man that could desert and plan to wed 
Will not his purpose yield to God and right, 
Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, 
If you be come this day to urge a claim. 
You will not tell me that 3-our claim will hold ; 
'Tis only, if I read aright, the old. 
Sorrowful, hateful story ! " 

Muriel sighed, 
With a dull patience that he marvelled at : 
" Be plain with me. I know not what to think. 
Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife? 
Be plain with me." And all too quietly. 
With running down of tears, the answer came, 
"Ay, madam, ay ! the worse for him and me." 
Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear, 
And cried upon him with a bitter cr^-. 
Sharp and des[)airing. And those two stood back. 
With such attright and violent anger stirred. 
He In-oke from out the thicket to her side. 
Not knowing. But, her hands before her face. 
She sat ; and, stepping close, that woman cfyne 
And faced him. Then said Muriel, *•' O my heart, 
Herbert ! " — and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, 
And lifted up his hand :ind looked at it. 
And at the woman ; but a man was there 
Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself 
Between them ; he was strong, — a stalwart man : 
And Herbert, thinking on it, knew his name, [strive 
" What good," quoth he, " though you and I should 
And wrestle all this April day? A word. 
And not a blow, is what these women want : 



m 



w 



=FT 



244 



LAU RANGE. 



Master yourself, and say it." Bat he, weak 
With passion and great anguish, flung himself 
Upon the seat and cried, " O lost, my love I 
O Muriel, Muriel I " And the woman spoke, 
'• Sir. 'twas an evil day yon wed with me ; 
And you were young ; 1 know it. sir. right well. 
Sir, I have worked ; I have not troubletl you. 
Not for myself, not for your child. 1 know 
We are not equal." •• Hold ! " he cried ; ""have done ; 
Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. 
Get from me ! Ay. my wife, my wife, indeed ! 
All's done. You hear it. Muriel ; if yon can, 
O sweet, forgive me." 

Then the woman moved 
Slowly away ; her little singing child 
Went in her wake ; and Muriel dropped her hands. 
And sat before these two that loved her so. 
Mute and unheeding. There were angry words. 
She knew, but yet she could not hear the words ; 
And afterwards the man she loved stooped down 
And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew 
To look at her, and with a gesture pray 
Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed, 
And presently, anil soon, O, — he was gone. 

She heard him go. and Laurauce, still as stone, 
Remain^ed beside her ; and she put her baud 
Before her face again, and afterward 
She heard a voice, as if a long way off. 
Some one entreated, but she could not heed. 
Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised 
Her passive from her seat. So then she knew 
That he would have her go with him. go home. — 
It was not far to go. — a dreary home. 
A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high. 
Had. in lier love, and for a place and home, 
Married the stern old rector ; and the girl 



rrr. 




LAU RANGE. 



245 



Dwelt v/ith them : she was orphaned, — had uo kin 
Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, 
And spared to her the telhng of this woe. 
He souglit her kindred where tliey sat apart, 
And laid before theui all the cruel thing. 
As he had seen it. After, he retired ; 
And restless, and not master of himself, 
He day and night haunted the rectory lanes ; 
And all things, even to the spreading out 
Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground. 
Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace 
And glory and great light on mountain heads, — 
All things were leagued against him, ministered 
By likeness or by contrast to his love. 

But what was that to Muriel, though her peace 
He would have purchased for her with all prayers, 
And costly, passionate, despairing tears? 
O, what to lier that he should find it worse 
To bear her life's undoing than his own ? 

She let him see her, and she made no moan. 
But talked full calmly of indiiferent things. 
Which, when he heard, and marked the faded eyes 
And lovely wasted cheek, he started up 
With "• This I cannot bear ! " and shamed to feel 
His manhood giving way, and utterly 
8ul)dued by her sweet patience and his pairt. 
Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, 
Battling and chiding with himself, the maze. 

She suflTered, and he could not make her well 
For all his loving ; — he was naught to her. 
And now his passionate nature, set astir. 
Fought with the pain that could not be endured ; 
And like a wild thing, suddenly aware 
Tliat it is caged, which flings and bruises all 
Its bodv at the bars, he rose, and raged 



^W 



']J 



-t£ 



246 



LAURANCE. 



Against llio luisorv : linn lu' made ;ill worse 
With tears. lUil when he eauie to her agiiiu, 
Willing to talk as thev had talked before, 
She sighed, and said, witli that strange qnietness, 
''1 know yon have been crying: " and she bent 
Her own fair head and wept. 

She felt the cold — 
The freezing oold that deadened all her life — 
Give way a little ; for this passionate 
Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart. 
And bronght some uatnral warmth, some natuial 
tears. 



rtSx 



And after that, tliongh oft he sought her door. 

He might not see her. First they said to him, 

" She is not well ; " and afterwards, '• Her wish 

Is ever to be (piiet." I'hen in haste 

They took her iVom the [jlaee, beeanse so fast 

She faded. As for him, — though youth and strength 

Can bear the weight as of a world, at last 

The burden of it tells, — he heard it said. 

When autumn eame, " The poor sweet thing will die : 

That shock was mortal." And he eared no more 

To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight 

That was laying waste his heart. lie journeyed south 

To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin. 

Good, kindly women; and he wrote to them, 

Praying that he might see her ere she died. 

So in her patience she permitted him 

To be about her. for it eased his heart ; 

And as iox her that was to die so soon, 

AVhat did it signify? Slie let him weep 

Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke 

Pitving words, and then thev made him i>o. 




LAU RANCH. 



247 



It vviis enough, they said ; her time was short, 
And he had seen her. He hai> seen, and felt 
The bitterness of death ; but he went home, 
Being satisfied in that great longing now, 
And able to endure what might befall. 

And Muriel lay, and faded with the year ; 
She lay at the door of death, that 0])ened not 
To take her in ; for when the days once more 
Began a little to increase, she felt, — 
And it was sweet to her, she was so young, — 
.She felt a longing for the time of flowers, 
And dreamed that she was walking in that wood 
With her two feet among the primroses. 

Then when the violet opened, she rose up 
And walked. The tender leaf and tender light 
Did solace her; but she was white and wan. 
The shadow of that Muriel in the wood 
Who listened to those deadly words. 

And now 
Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, 
Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder-rose 
In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, 
Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, 
And drifted not at all. The lilac spread 
Odorous essence round her ; and full oft, 
When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, 
She, faded, sat among the Ma3'-tide bloom. 
And with a reverent quiet in her soul, ^ 

Took back — it was His will — her time, and sat 
Learning again to live. 

Thus as she sat 
Upon a day, she was aware of one 
Who at a distance marked her. This again 
Another dav, and slie was vexed, for \et 



re 



La 



^- 



.t£J 



'h. 



248 



LAU RANCH. 



She lonm'd I'di- ([iiict ; luil she lu-Mrd n fool 

I'mss (iiicc ;i!j,;iiii, niid hrckoiicd lliroui;li (lie trees. 

" L;iur;ui(H' I " .^ ml nil iiiip.-il ieiil of mirest 

Ami stiife. :i\, excii ol' (lie siulil of tlu'lii. 

When lie drew iie;ir. willi lired. tired Hps, 

As if lier soul ii|»lir:iided liiiii, she s:iid. 

" NN hv li.Mve voii done this tiling?"" lie iinswered 

" her. 
" 1 :nii not ;il\v:iys iiinster in the iiii'hl : 
1 I'oiild not help it." 

" \\\v.\{ : " she sjohed, '' not vet! 
(). 1 Mill soriv ; " and slu' talked to him 
As one who looked to li\e, iiniiloiin^ liiiii, — 
"Try to forgot ine. Li't your fancy dwell 
IClsowluMV, nor me enrieii with it so louii,' ; 
It wearies me to thinU of this your lov(>. 
l'\>rm't me I 

lie made answer, *• I will try : 
The task will lake iiu' all my life to learn, 
I). weri> it learned, 1 know not how to live; 
This pain is part o{ life and Iteino- iiow% — 
It is myself; but \et - luit 1 will try." 
Then she spoke friendly to him. — of his homo, 
Mis father, and tlu> old. brave. h>\ iiiii' folk ; 
She baile him think of tlu'in. And not her words. 
r>ut havinu' sihmi lit>r. salislied his heart, 
lb' left her. and went home to live his lil\'. 
i\\\k\ all the summer heard it said of her, 
" Yet, she <^rows slrouii'er ; " but when autumn eamo 
.Vii'ain she ilroopi'd. 

A liitlei- thiiin it is 
'I\> lose at onee the lo\er and the love; 
l-'or who riH'iMveth not may yet ket>|) life 
In the spirit with liestowal. \\\\\ for her. 
This iMiiiiel. all was oone. The man she loved, 



ft 




■'.Ill not al'.vays master iij 
I coul'J not holp It/' — I'ay'; 24>;. 



]JJ 



s. 



LAURANCE. 249 



Not only from her present had witlidrawu, 
But from her past, and there was uo such man, 
There never had been. 

He was not as one 
Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds 
The winged fluttering stranger to his breast, 
Till, after transient stay, all unaware 
It leaves him : it has flown. No ; this may live 
In memory, — loved till death. He was not vile ; 
For who by choice would part with that pure bird. 
And lose the exaltation of its song? 
He had not strength of will to keep it fast. 
Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life 
Of thought to make the echo sound for him 
After the song was done. Pity that man : 
His music is all flown, and he forgets 
The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks 
'Twas no great matter. But he was not vile. 
Only a thing to pity most in man, 
Weak, — onlj' poor, and, if he knew it, undone. 
But Herbert ! When she mused on it, her soul 
Would fain have hidden him for evermore. 
Even from herself, — so pure of speech, so frank, 
80 full of household kindness. Ah, so good 
And true ! A little, she had sometimes thought, 
Despondent for himself, but strong of faith 
In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed. 

Ay, he was gone ' and she whom he had wed. 
As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. 
And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send. 
From her small store, money to help her need, 
With. "Pray j-ou keep it secret." Then the whole 
Of the cruel tale was told. 



]^ 



250 



LAURANCE. 



What more ? She died. 
Her kio, profuse of thauks, uot bitterly, 
Wrote of the eud. '' Our sister faiu had seen 
Her husband ; prayed hiui sore to come. But uo. 
And then she prayed him that he would forgive, 
Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. 
Dear Madam, he was angry, yet we think 
He might have let her see, before she died, 
The words she wanted, but he did not write 
Till she was gone, — ' I neither can forgive. 
Nor would I if I could.' " 

" Patience, my heart ! 
And this, then, is the man I loved ! " 

But yet 
He sought a lower level, for he wrote, 
Telling the story with a different hue, — 
Telling of freedom. He desired to come, 
'' For now," said he, " O love, may all be well." 
And she rose up against it in her soul, 
For she despised him. And with passionate tears 
Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words, — 
"• Herbert, I will uot see you." 

Then she drooped 
Again ; it is so bitter to despise ; 
And all her strength, when autumn leaves down 

dropped. 
Fell from her. ''Ah!" she thought, "I rose up 

once, 
I cannot rise up now ; here is the end." 
And all her kinsfolk thought, "It is the end." 

But when that other heard, " It is the end," 
His heart was sick, and he, as by a power 
Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. 
Reason rebelled aoainst it, but his will 



'¥ 



LAURANCE. 



251 



Required it of him witli a craving strong 

As life, and passionate thougii hopeless paiu. 

She, when she saw his face, considered him 

Full quietly, let all excuses pass 

Not answered, and considered yet again. 

" • He had heard that she was sick ; what could he do 
But come, and ask her pardon that he came?" 
AVhat could he do, indeed? — a weak white girl 
Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand ; 
His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, 
And not his. own. 

Slu' luolved, and pitied him, 
Then spoke : " He loves me with a love that lasts. 
Ah me ! that I miglit get away from it. 
Or, better, hear it said tliat love is not, 
And then I could have rest. My time is short, 
I think, — so short." And roused against himself 
In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom 
Her to disquiet whom he loved, — ay, her 
For whom he would have given all his rest. 
If there were any left to give, — he took 
Her words up bravely, promising once more 
Absence, and praying pardon ; but some tears 
Dropped quietly upon her cheek. 

" Remain," 
She said, " for there is something to be told. 
Some words that you must hear. 

" And first, hear this : 
GJod has been good to me ; you must not think 
That I despair. There is a quiet time 
Like evening in my soul. I liave no heart. 
For cruel Herltert killed it long ago, 
And death strides on. Sit. then, and give your mind 
To listen, and vonr eves to look at me. 



^€31 




^ 



^■ 



252 LA (J RANGE. 



Look at my face, Laiirauce, how white it is ; 
Look at my hand, — my beauty is all gone." 
And Laurance lilted up his ej'es ; he looked. 
But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, 
Far otherwise than she had willed : they said, 
" Lovelier than ever." 

Yet her words went on, 
Cold, and so quiet, '' I have suffered much. 
And 1 would faiu that none who care for me 
Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. 
Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, 
" I have brought my mind of late to think of this : 
That since your life is spoilt (not willingly. 
My God, not willingly by me) , 'twere well 
To give you choice of griefs. 

'• Were it not best 
To weep for a dead love, and afterwards 
Be comforted the sooner, that she died 
Remote, and left not in your liouse and life 
Aught to remind you? That indeed were best. 
But were it best to weep for a dead wife. 
And let the sorrow spend and satisfy 
Itself with all expression, and so end? 
I think not so ; but if for you 'tis best, 
Then. — do not answer v.ith too sudden words: 
It matters much to you : not much, not much 
To me. — then truly I will die your wife ; 
I will marry you." 

What was he like to say. 
But, overcome with love and tears, to choose 
The keener sorrow, — take it to liis heart. 
Cherish it, make it part of liim. and watch 
Those eyes, that were his liglit, till they should close? 

He answered her with eager, faltering words, 

" I choose, — my heart is yours, — die in my arms." 



fl 



LAURANCE. 253 



But was it well? Truly, at tirst, for hiui 

It was not well : he saw her fade, and cried, 

" When may this be?" She answered, '-When you 

will," 
And cared not much, for ver^- faint she grew, 
Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, 
" If I could slip away before the ring 
Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot 
For both, — a blessed thing for him, and me." 

But it was not so ; for the day had come, — 

Was over : days and months had come, and Death, — 

AYithin whose shadow she had lain, which made 

Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness. 

Indifferent, — Death withdrew himself, and life 

Woke up, and found that it was folded fast, 

Drawn to another life forevermore. 

O, what a waking ! After it there came 

Great silence. She got up once more, in spring, 

And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. 

She thought within herself, *•' What have I done? 

How shall I do the rest?" And he, wlio felt 

Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. [him, 

"What have we done?" she thought. But as for 

When she began to look him in the face, 

Considering. "Thus and thus his features are," 

For she had never thought on them before, 

She read their grave repose aright. She knew 

That in the stronghold of his heart, held back, 

Hidden reserves of measureless content 

Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute 

Most patient Muriel ! when he brought her home. 

She took the place they gave her, — strove to please 

His kin, and did not fail ; but yet thought on, 

" What have I done? how shall I do the rest? 

Ah ! so contented, Laurance, with this wife 



-_l S I i 



j£ 



dt^nr 



254 



LAURANCE. 



Tliat loves you not, for ull tlie stateliness 
Aud gnuuleur of your nuiuhood, iiud the deeps 
la your blue eyes." Anil alter that awhile 
Slie rested from such thhikiuo', [lut it by 
Aud waited. Slie had tliought ou death before : 
But no, tliis Muriel was not yet to die ; 
\\\(\ wliru she saw her little tender babe, 
Slie felt liow nuK'li the hai)i)y days of life 
Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny tiling, 
Whom wlien it slept the lovely mother nursed 
With I'everent love, whom when it woke, she fed 
And wondered at. and lost herself in long 
Rapture of watching, and contentment deep. 

Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, 
Her luisbaud and his father standing nigh, 
About to ride, the grandmother, all pride 
Aud consequence, so deep in learned talk 
Of infants, aud their little ways and wiles, 
Broke off to say, " I never saw a babe 
So like its father." And tlie thonght was new 
To Muriel ; she looked up, and when she looked. 
Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom 
Flusliing her face, would fain lie had not known. 
Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know ; 
Yet there was pleasure in his smile, aud love 
Tender aud strong. He kissed her, kissed his l)abe, 
AVitli " Goody, you are left in charge, take care." — 
"As if I needed telling," quoth the dame ; 
And they were gone. 

Then INInriel. lost in thought, 
(xazed ; and the grandmother, with open pride. 
Tended tlie lovely j^air ; till Muriel said, 
" Is she so like? Dear granny, get me now 
The i)ictnre that his father has ; " and soon 
The old woman jiut it in her hand. 



K 



P 



LAURANCE. 



255 



The wife, 
Considering it witli deep and strange delight, 
Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned. 

A mouth for mastery and manful work, 

A certain l)rooding sweetness in the eyes, 

A brow, the harbor of grave thought, and hair 

Saxon of hue. She conned ; then blushed again, 

Remembering now, when she had looked on him, 

The sudden radiance of her husband's smile. 

But Muriel did not send the picture back ; 
She kept it ; while her beauty and lier babe 
Flourished together, and in health and peace 
She lived. 

Her husband never said to her, 
" Love, are 3'ou happy?" never said to her, 
" Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, whene'er 
They rode together in the lanes, and paused. 
Stopping their horses, when the day was hot. 
In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds. 
Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks 
That topped the mountains, — when she sat by him, 
Witlidrawn at even while the summer stars 
Came starting out of nothing, as new made. 
She felt a little trouble, and a wisli 
That he would yet keep silence, and he did. 
That one reserve he would not touch, but still 
Respected. 

Muriel grew more brave in time. 
And talked at ease, and felt disquietude 
Fade. And another child was given to her. 

'' Now we shall do," the old great grandsire cried, 
" For this is the right sort, a boy." " Fie, fie," 
Quoth the good dame ; '•'• but never heed you, love, 
He thinks them both as right as right can be." 



^ 



w 



^ 



256 



LAU RANGE. 



lint Laurance weut from home, ere yet the boy 
Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go, 
But 3'et he said, " 1 must : " aud she was left 
IMueh with the kindly dame, whose gentle care 
Was like a mother's ; aud the two could talk 
Sweetly, for all the difference in their years. 

But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish 

That she had known why Laurance left her thus. 

"Ay, love," the dame made answer; '" for he said. 

' Goody,' before he left, ' if Muriel ask 

No question, tell her naught ; but if she let 

Any disquietude appear to you, 

Say what you know.' " '' What?" Muriel said, and 

laughed. 
" I ask, then." 

'• Child, it is that your old love. 
Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start : 
He's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near ; 
He said that he was going over seas, 
' And might I see your wife this only once, 
And get her pardon ? ' " 

"Mercy !" Muriel cried, 
" But Laurance does not wish it?" 

" Nay, now, nay," 
Quoth the good dame. 

" I cannot," Muriel cried ; 
" He does not, surely, think I should." 

"Not he," 
The kind old woman said, right soothingly. 
" Does not he ever know, love, ever do 
What you like best?" 

And Muriel, trembling yet. 
Agreed. '' I heard him say," the dame went on, 



fr; 




LAUkANCE. 



257 



" For I was with him when they met that da}-, 
' It would not be agreeable to my wife.' " 

Then Muriel, pondering, — "And he said no more? 
You think he did not add, '- Nor to myself? ' " 
And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame 
Unruffled answered, " No, sweetheart, not he : 
What need he care?" "And whj' not?" Muriel cried, 
Longing to hear the answer. " O, he knows. 
He knows, love, very well : " — with that she smiled. 
" Bless your fair face, you have not really thought 
He did not know you loved him ? " 

Muriel said, 
" He never told me, good}*, that he knew." 
" Well," quoth the dame, " but it may chance, m}' 

dear. 
That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep : 
Why need to rouse them? You are happy, sure? 
But if one asks, ' Art happy?' why it sets 
The thoughts a-working. No, say I, let love, 
Let peace and happy folk alone. 

"He said, 
' It would not be agreeable to ni}- wife.' 
And he went on to add, in course of time 
That he would ask you, when it suited 3-ou, 
To write a few kind words." 



" Yes," Muriel said, 



I can do that." 



" So Laurance went, 3'ou see," 
The soft voice added, " to take down that child. 
Laurance had written oft about the child, 
And now, at last, tlie father made it known 
He could not take him. He has lost, they saj^. 
His money, with much gamljling ; now he wants 



ri 



W4 



258 SOA'US OF THE NIGHT U\ ITCHES. 

To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote, 
And let tliis so be seen, tliat Laurance went 
And took the child, and took the money down 
To pay." 

And Muriel found her talking SAveet, 
And asked once more, the rather that she longed 
To speak again of Laurance, " Aud you think 
He knows I love him?" 

'' Ay, good sooth, he knows 
No fear ; but lie is like his father, love. 
His father never asked my pretty child 
One prying question ; took lier as she was ; 
Trusted her ; she has told me so : he knew 
A woman's nature. Laurance is the same. 
He knows you love him ; but he will not speak ; 
No, never. Some men are such gentlemen ! " 



SONGS OF THE XTGIIT WATCHES. 

Wnn AN INTUODUCTOKY SONG OF EVENING, ANH A 
CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY BAY. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

{Old Euglish Manner.) 

APPRENTICED. 

" Come out and hear tlie waters shoot, the owlet hoot, 
the owlet hoot ; 
You crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim be- 
hind the tree, O ! 
The dropping thorn makes wlilte the grass, O swt'ctest 
lass, and sweetest lass ; 
Come out aud smell the ricks of hay adown the 
ci'oft with me, O ! " 



fex 



T^ 



IJ] 



Jl 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 2^ 



59 



"My granny nods before her wheel, and drops hei- 
reel, and drops her reel ; 
My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can 
be, O ! 
But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, 
ere light wax dim ; 
How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, 
with thee, O ! " 

" Au(y must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is 
strong, and love is strong ; 
And O ! had I but served the time, that takes so 
long to flee, O ! 
And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in 
white, wast all in white. 
And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me 
and thee, O ! " 



THE FIRST WATCH. 



O, I WOULD tell you more, but I am tired ; 

For I have longed, and I have had my will ; 
1 pleaded in my spirit, I desired : 

" Ah ! let me only see him, and be still 
All my days after." 

Rock, and rock, and rock. 
Over the falling, rising watery world. 

Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main ; 
The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock 

To light on a warmer plain. 
White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled. 



z\=L 



260 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

Fall over iu harmless plaj', 

As these do far away ; 
Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea. 
All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee. 



I am so tired. 
If I would comfort me, I know not how, 
For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired. 
And I have nothing left to long for now. 

Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, 

Often and often, while the light grew dim, 
And through the lilac branches I could see, 
Under a saffron sky, the purple rim 
O' the heaving moorland? Ay. And then would 

float 
Up from behind — as it were a golden boat, 
Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, 
Love — such a slender moon, going up and up. 
Waxing so fast from night to night, 
And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright. 

Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, 
And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. 
Most beautiful crescent moon. 
Ship of the sky ! 
Across the unfurrowed reaches sailing high. 
Methought that it would come my way full soon, 
Laden with blessuigs that were all, all mine, — 
A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife. 
That ere its day was done should hear thee call me 
wife. 



All over ! the celestial sign hath failed ; 

The orange flower-bud shuts ; the ship hath sailed, 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 261 

And sunk behind the long low-lying hills. 
The love that fed on daily kisses dieth ; 
The love kept warm by nearness lieth, 
Wounded and wan; 

The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, 
And faints with nought to feed upon. 
Only there stirreth very deep below 
The hidden beating slow, 

And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath 
Of the love that conquers death. 

IV. 

Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear, 
My ever, my only dear? 
Yes ; and I saw thee start upon thy way, 
So sure that we should meet 
Upon our trysting-day. 
And even absence then to me was sweet. 
Because it brought me time to brood 
Upon thy dearness in the solitude. 
But ah ! to stay, and stay. 
And let that moon of April wane itself away, 

And let the lovely May 
Make ready all her buds for June ; 
And let the gloss}^ finch forego her tune 
That she brought with her in the spring. 
And nevp'-more, I think, to me can sing ; 
And then to lead thee home another bride, 
In the sultry summer-tide, 
And all forget me save for shame full sore. 
That made thee pray me, absent, " See my face no 
more." 



O hard, most hard ! But while my fretted heart, 
Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, 
Sobbed to itself apart, 
Ached to itself in vain. 



y 



262 SOATGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



( )ii(' t';iiiic> wlio lovrtli iiie 
As 1 1()\H' llicc. . . . 

Aiul K'ti my (iod iriiiriulx'i- him for lliis. 
As 1 do liopo lie will forget thy kiss, 
Nor visit on thy stately iiead 
Alight that thy moiilh lialh swoin. or tliy two I'yes 

ha\'e said. . . . 
lie eaiiu', and it was dark. lie eanie, and sighed 
IJecause he knew the sorrow, — whis[)eriug low, 
And fast, and thiek, as one that si)euks by rote: 
" 'The vessel lieth in the river reaeh, 

A mile above the heaeh, 
And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." 
He said, " 1 have ii boat, 
And were it, good to go, 
And imbeliolden in the vessel's wake, 
Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive, 
As he embarks, a shameful fugitive. 
Come, then, with me." 

\ 1. 

O, how lu' sighed 1 The little stars did wink, 
And it was very dark. 1 gave my hand, — 
lie led me out aeross the, jiasture land, 
And through the narrow eroft, 
Down to the river's brink. 
AVhen thou wast full in spring, iJiou little sleepy 

thing. 
The yellow llags that l)roidered thee would stand 
I'p to their chins in water, and full oft 
AN'k pulled tlu'm and the other shining llowers. 

That all are gone to-day : 
A\'k two, that had so many things to say. 
So many hopes to render clear : 
And they are all gone after thee, my deiu-, — 
Gone after those swei't hours. 



SOA'CS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



263 



That tender liii'lit, 11i;\j l);iliny rain ; 
Gone " as a wind that [nissetli away, 
And conietli not again." 

VII. 

r only saw the stars, — I conld not see 

Tlie river, — and they seemed to lie 
And far below as the other stars were hisrh. 

o 

I trembled lii<e a tliinu; abont to die : 
It was so awl'nl 'neatli the nuij(!sty 
Of that great crystal height, that overhung 
Tlie blackness at our feet, 
Unseen to fleet and fleet, 
The flocking stars among, 
And only hear tlie dipping of the oar. 
And the small wave's caressing of the darks(^me shore, 



Less real it was than any dream. 
Ah me ! to hear the bending willows shiver, 
As we shot (piickly fi'om the silent I'iver, 

And felt the swaying and the How 
That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, 

Whereto its nameless waters go : 
O ! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes. 
See that weird sight again ; 
The lights fnjm anchored vessels hung ; 
The phantom moon, that sprung 
Suddenly up in dim and angry wise 

From the riin o' the mosuiing main, 
And toncluid with elfin light 
The two long oars whereby we made our flight 
Along th(! reaches of the night; 
Then furrowed up a lowering cloud. 
Went in, and left us darker than Ixifbre, 
To feel our way as the midnight watches wcn-e, 



^ 




\IK 



264 SONGS OF THJ-: NIGHT WATCHES. 



And lio in iieu lee, with niouniful faces bowed, 
That slioiild receive and bear witli her away 
The briglitest portion of my snnniest day, — 
Tile hinghter of the hind, tlie sweetness of tlie shore. 

IX. 

And 1 beheld thee : saw the lantern flash 

Down on thy face wlien thou didst clinili llie side. 

And thou wert pale, i);de as the patient bride 

That followed : botli a little sad, 
Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad. 

That once did bear thee on, 
Tliat brow of thine had lost ; tlie fervor rash 
Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. 
(), wliat a little moment, what a crumb 
Of comfort for a heart to feed upon ! 

And that was all its sum : 

A glimiise, and not a meeting, — 

A drawing near by night, 
To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting. 
And all between the Mashing of a light 
And its retreating. 

X. 

Then after, ere 'She spiead her wafting wings, 
The ship, — and weighed lier anchor to depart, 
We stole from her dark lee, like guilty things ; 

And there was silence in my heart, 
And silence in the uppt'r and the nether deep. 

O sleep! O sleep! 
Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep, 
Now 1 ii:ive nothing left, thy healing hand 
Over the lids that crave thy visits bland, 

Thou kind, thou comforting one : 

For I liave seen his face, as I desired. 

And all my story is done. 
O. I am tired ! 



JH 







T3 S 

< Q 



w 



\, L 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



265 



THE MIDDLE WATCH. 



I WOKE in the night, and the darkness was heavy 
and deep ; 
I had known it was dark in my sleep, 
And I rose and looked out, 
And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick 

round about 
With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too 

far 
For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate to sail, 
where remote 
In the sheen of their glory they float, 
Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams 
to partake. 
And dazed in their wake, 
Drink day that is born of a star. 
I murmured, "Remoteness and greatness, how deep 
you are set, 
How afar in the rim of the whole ; 
You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, 

O, nor yet 
Of our light-bearer, — drawing the marvellous moons 
as they roll, 
Of our regent, the sun. 
I look on you trembling, and think, in the dark with 

my soul, 
"How siuall is our place 'mid the kingdoms and 
nations of God : 
These are greater than we, every one." 
And there falls a great fear and a dread cometh 
over, that cries, 



1\ 



u 



^HBx 



266 SOA'GS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

"O my hope ! Is there any mistake? 
Did He spealv? Did 1 hear? Did I listen aright, if 

He spake ? 
Did I answer Him duly? for surely I now am awake, 

If never I woke until now." 
And a light, battling wind, that leads nowhitlier, 

plays. on my brow. 
As a sleep, I must think on my day, of my path as 

untrod. 
Or troilden in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts 

are a doubt ; 
AVhose countries recede from my thoughts, as they 
grope round about, 
And vanish, and tell me not how. 
Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling in 
light. 
And feeding the lamps of the sky ; 
Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy 
sight, 
I pray Thee, to-night. 

watch whom Tliou madest to dwell on its soil. 

Thou Most Higli ! 
For this is a world full of sorrow (there may be but 

one) ; 
Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye 

are undone, 
For this is a world where we die. 

II. 

With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and 
that yearned 
(There fell a great calm while it spake) , 

1 had heard it ere while, but the noises of life are so 

loud, 
That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and 
the crowd : 



-4— » 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 267 

To the simple it cometli, — the child, or asleep, or 

uwake, 
Aud they know not from whence ; of its nature the 

wise never learned 
Bv his wisdom ; its seci'et the worker ne'er earned 
By his toil ; and the rich among men never bought 
with his gold; 
Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled. 

Nor the jester put down with his jeers 
(For it moves where it will) , nor its season the 
aged discerned 
By thought, in the ripeness of years. 

O elder than reason, and stronger than will ! 
A voice, when the dark world is still : 

Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, Thou know- 

est ! and we, — 
We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent 

us of Thee ; 
P'or it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty 

and dread. 
And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears 

that we shed ; 
It is more than all meanings, and over all strife ; 
On its tongue are the laws of our life. 
And it counts up the times of the dead. 

III. 
I will fear you, O stars, never more. 
I have felt it ! Go on, while the world is asleep. 
Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep. 
Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harp- 

ings of yore ! 
How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far 
awa}' lands : 
" The heavens are the work of Thy hands ; 



^ 



*H^ 



268 SONGS OF THE NIGIIF WATCHES. 



Tlu'V slmll pci'isli, hill, 'I'lioii slmll, cndin-t' ; 
Vca, llu'V :ill slinll wax old, — 
r>iit 'IMiy llironc! is cstahli.slKHl, O (iod, and 'I'liy years 
a IV made sure ; 
They shall perish, Itut- Tiiou slialt (.'luhire, — 
'I'hey sluiU puss like a tale that is told." 

Doth lie auswt'i-, ttu' Aiicieuti of Days? 
\\ ill III' s[)eak in the tonoiu' and the fashion of 
nie\i ? 
Hist! hist! while the hea\(.Mi-huii<2,' mnltitudi's shine 

In His praise, 
(His language of oltl.) Nay, He si)oke with them 
first ; it was then 
'i'hev lifted their eyes to His throiu^ : 
" 'I'lu'y shall call on Me, 'Thou art our Father, our 

(ioil. Thou alone ! ' 
For 1 made them, I led them in deserts anil desolate 
ways ; 
I have I'ouiul llii'in a Jvansoui Divini' ; 
1 ha\e lo\ ed them with love everlasting, tlu' ehiUlren 
of men ; 
I swear by Myself, they are Mine." 



THE ]\1()KXIN(; WATCH. 

TIIK COIMINO IN OK THK " MKl! M AinKN." 

TiiK moon is bleached as wl<iti> as wool, 

And just dropi)ing inuler ; 
Every star is gone but thi'ee. 

And they hang far asunder, — 
There's a sea-ghost all in gray, 

A tall shape of wonder ! 




" But look how the sea-ghost comes, 
With wan skirts extended." — Page 269. 



e 



SOJVGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



269 






I am not satisfied witli sleep, — 

Tlie night is not ended. 
But look how the sea-ghost comes, 

With wan skirts extended, 
Stealing up in this weird hour. 

When light and dark are blended. ' 

A vessel ! To the old pier-end 
Her happy course she's keeping ; 

I heard them name her yesterday : 
Some were pale with weeping ; 

Some with their heart-hunger sighed : 
She's in, — and they are sleeping. 

O ! now with fancied greetings blest, 
They comfort their long aching : 

The sea of sleep hath borne to them 
What would not come with waking, 

And the dreams shall most be true 
In their blissful breaking. 

The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes, - 

No blush of maid is sweeter ; 
The red sun, half waj" out of bed, 

Shall be the first to greet her. 
None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, 

And rise, and run to meet her. 

Their lost they have, they hold ; from pain 

A keener bliss they borrow. 
How natural is joy, my heart ! 

How easy after sorrow ! 
For once, the best is come that hope 

Promised them '' to-morrow." 



zb£j 



270 SU2V0S OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



CONCLUDING SONG OF DAWN. 

{Old KiKjlhli Manner:) 

A MOKN OK MAY. 

All tlie clouds about the sun lay up in golden 

creases 
(Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn 

of day) ; 
Lambkins woke and skij:)ped around to dry their 

dewy fleeces, 
So sweetl}' as she carolled, all on a morn of May. 

Quoth the Sergeant, "Here I'll halt; here's wine of 

joy for drinking ; 
To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings 

doth play ; 
All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking. 
And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of 

May." 

Quoth tlie ' Sergeant, "Work is Avork, but an};- 3'e 

might make me, 
If I worked for you, dear lass, I'd count my holiday. 
I'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but 

take me, 
So sweetly as j'e carol upon this morn of May." 

" Medals count for worth," quoth she, " and scars 

are won for lionor ; 
But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." 
All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon 

her, 
O ! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May. 






S 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



271 



Gladsome leaves upou the bough, the}- fluttered fast 

and fastei'. 
Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the 

dull delay : 
"Beauty! wlien I said a slave, I tliink I meant a 

master ; 
So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May. 

" Lass, I love you ! Love is strong, and some men's 
hearts are tender." 

Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not 
aught to say ; 

Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any coun- 
sel render, 

Though sweetly she had carolled upou that morn of 
May. 

Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and deemed the 

wooing mended ; 
Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have 

his way : 
So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was 

ended. 
O ! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of May. 




^ 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

I500K I. 

NiLOiYA said to Noah, " What aileth thee, 

My master, unto whom is my desire. 

The father of my sons?" He answered her, 

" Mother of many children, I have heard 

The Voice again." '• Ah, me ! " she saith, " ah, me ! 

What spake it?" and with that Niloiya sighed. 



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This when the Master-builder heard, his heart 

Was sad iu him, the while he sat at home 

And rested after toil. The steady rap 

O' the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale 

Did seem to mock him ; but her distaff down 

Niloija laid, and to the doorplace went, 

Farted the purple covering seemly hung 

Before it, and let in the crimson light 

Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth, — 

Looked, and beheld the liollow where the ark 

Was a-preparing ; where the dew distilled 

All night fi'om leaves of old lign aloe-trees, 

Upon the gliding river; where the palm. 

The almug, and the gophir shot their heads 

Into the crimson brede that dyed the world : 

And lo ! he marked — unwieldy, dark, and huge — 

The ship, his glory and his grief, — too vast 

For that still river's floating, — building far 

From mightier streams, amid the pastoral dells 

Of shepherd kings. 

Niloiya spake again : 
'•' What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man?" 
He, laboring with his thought that trouV»led him. 
Spoke on behalf of God : '• Behold," said he, 
" A little handful of unlovely dust 
He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when 
He laughed upon its beauty, it wa^ed warm, 
And with His breath awoke a living soul. 

" Shall not the Fashioner command His work? 
And who am I, that, if He whisper, ' Rise, 
Go forth upon Mine errand,' should reply, 
' Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons, — 
I love not scorning ; I beseech Thee, God, 
Have me excused.'" 



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27' 



She auswered him, •' Tell on." 
Ami he continuing, reasoned with his soul : 
" What though 1, — lilve some goodly lama sunk 
In meadow grass, eating her way at ease, 
Unseen of them that pass, and asking not 
A wider prospect than of yellow flowers 
That nod above her head — should lay me down, 
And willingly forget this high behest, 
There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermore, 
Though I went forth to cry against the doom. 
Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down : 
It hangeth balanced over us ; she crieth, 
And it shall fall. O ! as for me, my life 
Is bitter, looking onward, for I know 
That in the fulness of the time shall dawn 
That day : my preaching shall not bring forth fruit. 
Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float 
Upon the abhorred sea, that mankind hate, 
With thee and thine." 

She answered : "God forbid ! 
For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep 
They dread, and at the last will surely turn 
To Him, and He, long-suffering, will forgive, 
And chide the waters back to their abyss, 
To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed. 
Sir, I am much afraid ; I would not hear 
Of riding on the waters : look you, sir. 
Better it were to die with you by hand 
Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me ! 
Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet, 
Uuconsecrate, unfriendl}', dreadful sea." 

He saith again : '"I pray thee, woman, peace, 
For thou wilt enter, when that day appears. 
The fateful ship." 




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A STORY OF DOOM. 



"■ My lord," quoth she, " I will. 
But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sure 
The Master calleth ; for the time is long- 
That thou hast warned the world : tliou art but here 
Three days ; the song of welcoming but now 
Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad : 
And wilt thou go again? Husband, I say, 
Be sure who 'tis that calleth ; O, be sure. 
Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night, 
Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands, did kiss, 
Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love. 
And watchful of thee till the moon went down. 

" She never loved me since I went with thee 
To sacrifice among the hills : she smelt 
The holy smoke, and could no more divine 
Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up ; 
It liad a snake with a red comb of fire 
Twisted about its waist, — the doggish head 
Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me. 
' This woman might be wiser,' quotli the ghost ; 
' Shall there be husbands for her found below. 
When she comes down to us? O, fool ! O, fool! 
She must not let her man go forth, to leave 
Her desolate, and reap the whole world's scorn, 
A harvest for himself.' AYith that they passed." 

He said : " My crystal drop of perfectness, 

I pity thee ; it was an evil ghost : 

Thou wilt not heed the counsel?" " I will not," 

Quoth she ; '' I am loyal to the Highest. Him 

I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best. 

Sir, am I fairer than when last we met?" 

" God add," said lie, " unto thy much yet more. 

As I do think thou art." " And think yon. sir," 

Niloiya saith, '• that I have reached the [irime?" 

He answering, '' Nay, not yet." " I would 'twere so," 



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275 



She plaineth, " for the daughters mock at me : 
Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore 
Slie pineth for the Master. Look you, sir, 
They reach but to the kuee. But thou art come, 
And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all 
My supper that I set, and afterwaixl 
Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way ; 
Else shall I be despised as Adam was. 
Who compassed not the learning of his sons, 
But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head 
And ponder, following of great Isha's feet. 
When she would walk with her fair brow upraised, 
Scorning the children that she bare to him." 

" Ay,"' quoth the Master ; " but they did amiss 
When they despised their father : knowestthou that?" 

" Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith, 
" Than any that came after. Furthermore, 
He had not heart nor courage for to rule : 
He let the mastery fall from his slack hand. 
Had not our glorious mother still borne up 
His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart, 
And listened, when the fit came over him 
To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk 
Into the slave of slaves." 

"Nay, thou must think 
How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman. 
And looked in hope among the tribes for one 
To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once 
Waking, he found at his left side, and knew 
The deep delight of speech." So Noah, and thu^ 
Added, " And therefore was his loss the more ; 
Yox though the creatures he had singled out 
His favorites, dared for him the fiery sword 
And followed after him, — shall bleat of lamb 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 



Console one for the foregone talk of God? 
Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog. 
Fawning upon him, malve his heart forget 
At such a time, and sucli a time, to have heard 
What he shall hear no more? 

" O, as for him, 
It was for this that he full oft would stop. 
And. lost in thought, stand and revolve tliat deed, 
Sad muttering. • AVoman ! we reproach thee not ; 
Though thou didst eat mine immortality; 
Eartli, be not sorry ; I was free to choose.' 
Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn. 
Was not the helpmeet given to raise 'him up 
From his contentment with the lower things? 
Was she not somewhat that he could not rule 
Beyond the action, tliat he could not have 
By the mere holding, and that still aspired 
And drew him after her? !So, when deceived 
!She fell by great desire to rise, he fell 
By loss of upward drawing, when she took 
An evil tongue to be her counsellor : 
'• Death is not as the death of lower things, 
Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven, 
A change to being as gods,' — he from her hand, 
Upon reflection, took of death that hour. 
And ate it (not the death that she had dared) ; 
He ate it knowing.. Then divisions came. 
She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way, 
Too venturesome, among the farther stars, 
And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes 
To find the path to heaven ; in bitter wise 
Did bear to iiim degenerate seed, and he. 
Once having felt her upward drawing, longed, 
And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored. 
Albeit she drew no more." 



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277 



" Sir, ye speak well," 
N.iloiya &aith, " but yet the mother sits 
Higiier thiui Aduin. He did understand 
Discourse of birds tiud nil four-footed things, 
But she hud knowledge of the many tribes 
Of angels and their tongues ; their playful ways 
And greetings when they met. Was she not wise ? 
They say she knew much that she never told, 
And had a voice that called to her as thou." 

" Nay," quoth the Master-shipwright, " who am I 

That I should answer? As for me, poor man, 

Here is my trouble : ' if there be a Voice,' 

At first 1 cried, • let me behold the mouth 

That uttereth it.' Thereon it held its peace. 

But afterward, 1, journeying u[) the hills. 

Did hear it hoUower than an echo fallen 

Across some clear abyss ; and I did stop, 

And ask of all my company, ^ What cheer? 

If there be spirits abroad tliat call to us, 

.Sirs, hold your peace and hear.' So they gave heed, 

And one man said, *■ It is the small ground-doves 

That peck upon the stony hillocks ; ' one, 

' It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp 

That cheweth in his dream ; 'and one, ' My lord. 

It is the ghost of him that yesternight 

We slew, because he grudged to yield his wife 

To thy great father, when he peaceably 

Did send to take her.' Then I answered, ' Pass,' 

And they went on ; and I did la}" mine ear 

Close to the earth ; but there came up therefrom 

No sound, nor any speech ; I waited long. 

And in the saying, ' I will mount my beast 

And on,' I was as one that in a trance 

Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw 

Great waters and a ship ; and somewhat spake, 

' Lo, this shall be ; let him that heareth it. 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 



And seeth it, go forth to warn liis kind, 
For I will drown the world.' " 

Niloiya saith, 
•' Sir, was that all that 3^6 went forth upon?" 
Tlie Master, he replieth, ''Ay, at first, 
That same was all ; but many days went by, 
While I did reason with my heart and hope 
For more, and struggle to remain, and think, 
' Let me be certain ; ' and so tliink again, 
' The counsel is but dark ; would I had more ! 
When I have more to guide me, I will go.' 
And afterward, when reasoned on too much, 
It seemed remoter, then I only said, 
' O, would I had the same again ; ' and still 
I had it not. 

' ' Then at the last I cried, 
' If the unseen be silent, I will speak 
And certify my meaning to myself. 
Say that He spoke, then He will make that good 
Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best 
To go, and do His bidding. All the earth 
Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry 
AVlien the doom falls, "Thou God art hard on us ; 
We knew not Thou wert angry. O ! we are lost, 
Only for lack of being warned." 

' ' ' But say 
That He spoke not, and merely it befell 
That I being weary had a dream. Why, so 
He could not suffer damage ; when the time 
Was past, and that I threatened had not come. 
Men would cry out on me. haply me kill. 
For troubling their content. They would not swear, 
" God, that did send this man, is proved untrue," 
But rather. " Let him die ; he lied to us ; 
God never sent him." Only Thou, great King, 



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279 



Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave 
The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again, 
I'go in gladness ; if Thou wilt not speak, 
Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less 
Shall go, because I have believed, what time 
I seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands 
With memory of believing.' Then I washed, 
And did array me in the sacred gown, 
And take a lamb." 

"Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, 
" I following, and I knew not anything 
Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms. 
We, moving up among the silent hills. 
Paused in a grove to rest ; and many slaves 
Came near to make obeisance, and to bring 
Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire. 
Then in their hearing thou didst say to me, 
' Behold, I know thy good fidelity, 
And theirs that are about us ; they would guard 
The mountain passes, if it were my will 
Awhile to leave thee ; ' and the pj'gmies laughed 
For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things ; 
And put their heads down, as their manner is, 
To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept 
Sir, I could weep now ; ye did ill to go 
If that was all your bidding ; I had thought 
God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go.' 

Then said the son of Lamech, " Afterward, 
When I had left thee. He whom I had served 
Met with me in the visions of the night, 
To comfort me for that I had withdrawn 
From thy dear company. He sware to me 
That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch 
The bordering of mine outmost field. I say. 
When I obeyed, He made His matters plain. 



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280 



./ SJ\)A"i- OF DOOM. 



With whom could I have left thee, but with them, 
lioni ill thy mother's house, :uul bound tliy slaves?" 

She s:ii(l, •■' I love not pygiiiies ; tliev tire n;ui<>ht.'' 
And he, '• Who made tiieiii i)y!j;inies?" Then she 

puslu^l 
Her veiling hair buck from her round, soft eyes, 
And answered, wondering, " Sir, my mothers did ; 
Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit 
Heside him on tiie settle, answering, "Ay." 
And they went on to talk as writ below. 
If any one shall read : 

" Thy mother did. 
And they that went before her. Thinkest thou 
That they did well?" 

" They had been overcome ; 
And when the lingered con(iuerors drave them out, 
liehoved them llnd some other way to rule, 
Tlu'y did but use their wits. Hath not man aye 
IJeen cunning in dominion, among beasts 
To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake 
Of tlie white wool he loveth, at his choice? 
What harm if coveting a race of men 
That could but serve, they sought among their thralls, 
Such as were low of stature, men and maids ; 
Ay, and of feeble will and (juiet mind? 
Did they not six'ud much gear to gather out 
Such as I tell of, and for matching tiiem 
One with another for a thousand years ? 
What harm, then, if there came of it a race. 
Inferior in their wits, and in their size. 
And well content to serve ? " 

'' Wliat harm? " thou sayest. 
My wife doth ask, ' What harm?' " 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 281 






'^ Your pardon, sir. 


' 


I. J do remember that tliere came one day, J 
Two of the grave old angels that God made, 
Wlien Ih-st lie invented life (right old tliey were 
And plain, and venerable) : and they said, 
Rebuking of my mother as with hers 
She sat, 'Ye do not well, you wives of men. 
To match your wit against the Maker's will. 
And for your benefit to lower the stamp 
Of His fair image, which He set at first 
Upon man's goodly frame ; ye do not well 
To treat His likeness even as ye treat 
The bird and beast that perish.' " 

" Said they aught 
To appease the ancients, or to speak tliem fair?" 

" How know I? 'Twas a slave that told it ine. 
My mother was full old when 1 was born. 
And that was in lier youth. What think you, sir? 
Did not the giants likewise ill?" 

"To tliat 
I have no answer ready. If a man, 
Wlien each one is against his fellow, rule, 
Oi- unmolested dwell, or unreproved. 
Because, for size and strength, he standeth first. 
He will thereof be glad ; and if he say, 

'I will to wife choose me a stately maid, 
And leave a goodly offspring;' 'sooth, I think, 
He sinneth not; for good to him and his 
He would 1)0 strong and great. Tiiy jx'ople's fault 
Was, that for ill to others, they did plot 
To make them weak and small." 

p " But yet they steal ^ 
Or take in war the strongest maids, and such 
As are of highest stature ; ay, and <jft 


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A STORY OF DOOM. 



Thev light :unong themselves tor that same cause. 
And they are proud against the King of heaven : 
They hope in course of ages they shall come 
To be as strong as lie." 

The Master said, 
'■'• I will not hear thee talk thereof ; my heart 
Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife, 
I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee. 
And bid that they prepare the sleeping place. 
() would that 1 migiit rest ! I fain would rest, 
And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world 
My never-heeded tale ! " 

With that she called. 
The moon was up, and some few stars were out. 
While heavy at the heart he walked abroad 
To meditate before his sleep. And 3'et 
Niloiya pondered, " Shall my master go? 
And will my master go? Wliat 'vaileth it. 
That he doth si)eud himself, over the waste 
A-wandering, till he reach outlandish folk, 
That mock his warning? (), what 'vaileth it. 
That he doth lavish wi'alth to build you ark. 
Whereat ti>e daughters, when they eat with me. 
Laugh ? my heart ! I would the Voice were stilled. 
Is not he happy? Who, of all the earth, 
Obeyeth like to me? Have not 1 learned 
From his dear mouth to utter seemly words. 
And lay the powers my mother gave me by ? 
Have I made offerings to the dragon? Nay, 
Aud I am faithful, when he leaveth me 
Lonely betwixt the peakt^'d mountain tops 
In this long valley, where no stranger foot 
Can come without my will. He shall not go. 
Not yet, 'not yet ! But three days — only three — 
Beside me, and a muttering on the third, 



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283 



' I have heard the Voice again.' Be dull, O dull, 
Mind and remem])rance ! Mother, ye did ill ; 
'Tis hard unlawful knowledge not to use. 
Why, O dark mother! ojjened ye the way?" 
Yet when he entered, and did lay aside 
His costly robe of sacrifice, — the robe 
Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun 
Went down, — forgetful of her mother's craft. 
She lovely and submiss did mourn to him : 
" Thou wilt not go, — I pray thee, do not go. 
Till thou hast seen thy children." And he said, 
" I will not. I have cried, and have prevailed: 
To-morrow it is given me by the Voice 
Upon a four days' journey to proceed. 
And follow down the river, till its waves 
Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells. 

" ' There,' quoth the Uureveal6d, ' we shall meet, 

And I will counsel thee ; and thou shalt turn 

And rest thee with the mother, and with them 

She bare.' Now, therefore, when the morn appears, 

Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves, 

And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car 

With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands ; 

Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck 

Th}' locks with gold ; and while the hollow vale 

I thread beside yon river, go thou forth 

Atween the mountains to my father's house. 

And let thy slaves make all obeisance due, 

And take and lay an offering at his feet. 

Then light, and cry to him, ' Great king, the son 

Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent 

To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.' " 

" Sir," (juoth the woman, " I will do this thing, 
So thou keep faith with me, and yet return. 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 



But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide, 
Nor that Unseen, who ealleth, buffet thee, 
And drive thee on? " 

He saith, " It will keep faith. 
Fear not. I have prevailed, for I besought, 
And lovingly it answered. I shall rest. 
And dwell with thee till after my three sous 
Come from the chase." kShe said, "I let them forth 
In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few. 
The giant elephants be cunning folk ; 
Tliey lie in ambush, and will draw men ou 
To follow, — then will turn and tread them down." 

" Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he, 
" To drive them down upon the growing corn 
Of them that were their foes ; for now, behold. 
They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay 
Retirement to their lands, and meanwhile, pound 
The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash ; 
Or wallowing in the waters foul them ; nay. 
Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood 
Their cities ; or, assailed and falling, shake 
The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men. 
Over the hairy terror piling stones 
Or earth, prevail to cover it." 

She said, 
" Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft 
I would my sous were home ; but now so well 
Methinks it is with me, that I am fain 
To wish they might delay, for thou wilt dwell 
With me till after they return, and thou 
Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then, ah nie ! 
I must sit jojiess in my place ; bereft. 
As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves. 
And dark as niohts that have no moon." 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 285 

She spake : 
The hope o' the world did hearken, but reply 
Miide none. He left his hand ou her fair locks 
As she la}' sobbing ; and the quietness 
Of night began to comfort her, the fall 
Of far-off waters, and the winged wind 
That went among the trees. The patient hand, 
Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her. 
Until she said, " What wilt thou? Nay, I know. 
I therefore answer what thou utterest not. 
Thou lovest me tvell, and not for thine own icill 
Consentest to depart. What more? Ay, this: 
/ do avow that He tvhich calleth thee, 
Hath right to call ; and I do sivear the Voice 
Shall have no let of me to do Its will.'' 



Now ere the sunrise, while the morning star 
Hung yet behind the pine-bough, woke and prayed 
The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad 
Because the Voice was favorable. Now 
Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran forth 
The slaves preparing food. The}' therefore ate 
In peace together ; then Niloiya forth 
Behind the milk-white steers went on her way ; 
And the great Master-builder, down the course 
Of the long river, on his errand sped. 
And as he went, he thought : 

[They do not well 
Who, walking up a trodden path, all smooth 
With footsteps of their fellows, and made straight 
From towu to town, will scorn at tliem that wonn 
Under the covert of God's eldest trees 
(Such as He planted with His hand, and fed 
With dew before rain fell, till they stood close 




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A STORY OF DOOM. 



And awful : drank the light up as it dropt, 

And kejjt the dusk of ages at their roots), — 

They do not well who mock at sucli and cry, 

'' We peaceably, without or fault or fear, 

Troceed, and miss not of our end ; but these 

Are slow and fearful : with uncertain pace. 

And ever reasoning of the way, they oft. 

After all reasoning, choose the worser course. 

And plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth 

Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal 

Not worth their pains." Nor do they well whose 

work 
Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs, 
(xet gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn 
Or those who work for a world (no wages paid 
By a Master hid in light) , and sent alone 
To face a huighing multitude, whose e3'es 
Are full of damaging pity, tliat forbears 
To tell the harmless laborer, "Thou art mad."] 

And as he went, he thought : "• They counsel me, 
Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, 
' Consider ; call thy soberer thought to aid ; 
AVhy to but one man should a message come? 
And why, if but to one, to thee? Art thou 
Above us, greater, wiser? Had He sent, [knoweth 
lie had willed that we should heed. Then since He 
That such as thou, a wise man cannot heed, 
He did not send.' TNfy answer, ' Great and wise. 
If He had sent with thunder, and a voice 
Leaping from heaven, ye must h;\ve heard ; but so 
Ye had been robbed of choice, :ind, like the beasts, 
Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves.' 
They tell nie, ' God is great nbove thy thought : 
He meddles not ; and this small world is ours, 
These many hundred years we govern it ; 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 



287 



Old Adam, after Eden, saw Him not.' 

Then I, '■ It may be He is gone to knead 

]More cla}-. But look, my masters ; one of you, 

(ioing to warfare, layeth up his gown. 

His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no more 

Upon it, till young trees have waxen great ; 

At last, when he returneth, he will seek 

His own. And God, shall He not do the like? 

And, having set new worlds a- rolling, come 

And say, ^'J will betake Me to the earth 

That I did make ; " and, having found it vile. 

Be sorry. Why should man be free, you wise. 

And not the Master?' Tiien tiiey answer, •■ P'ool ! 

A man shall cast a stone into the air 

For pastime, or for lack of heed, — but He ! 

Will He come fingering of his ended work, 

Fright it witli His approaching face, or snatch 

One day the rolling wonder from its ring, 

And hold it quivering, as a wanton child 

Might take a nestling from its downy bed, 

And having satisfied a careless wish, 

Go thrust it back into its i)lace again?' 

To such 1 answer, and, that doubt once mine, 

I am assured that I do speak aright : 

' Sirs, the significance of this your doubt 

Lies in the reason of it : ye do grudge 

That these your lands should have another Lord ; 

Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain 

Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked 

For countenance and favor when He came. 

Knowing yourselves right worthy, would ye care. 

With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, to prove 

That He would never come, and would your wrath 

Be hot against a prophet? Nay, I wot 

That as a flatterer you would look on him, — 

"Full of sweet words thv mouth is : if He come, — 




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A STORY OF DOOM. 



W V tliiiik not tliMl 111' will, — but if \\v coiiie, 
Would it niioht be to-iuorrovv, or t<)-ni«;'lit, 
IJeeuuse we look I'or i)i';iiso." ' " 

Now, as he went, 
The iioontiilc heiits eauie on, ;uul he grew faint; 
But while he sjit below an ahnug-tree, 
A slave a[)i)r()ache(l with oi'eotino-, "Master, hail !" 
lie answered, "Hail! what wilt thou?" Then she 

saiil, 
" The palace of thy fathers standeth nigh." 
" I know it," quoth he ; and she said again, 
''The Klder, learning thou wouldst j):iss, hath sent 
To fetch thee." Then he rose and followed her. 
So fii'st they walked beneath a lofty roof 
Of living bough and tendril, woven on high 
To let no drop of sunshine through, and hung 
With gold and pui-ple fruitage, and the white 
Thick cups of scented blossom, llndcrneath. 
Soft grew the sward and delicate, and Hocks 
Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up, 
Fanning their wings, to agitate and eool 
The noonday air, as men with heed and pains 
Had taught Ihcni, marshalling and taming them 
To bear the wind in, on their moving wings. 

So long time as a nimlde slave would s]X'nd 
In milking of her cow, they walked at ease ; 
Then reached the [)alace, all of forest trunks, 
Brought whole and set together, made. Therein 
Had dwelt old Adam, when his mighty sons 
Had linished it, and up to Eden gate 
Hail journeyed for to fetch him. '' Here," they said, 
''■ Mother and fatiier, ye may dwell, and here 
Forget the garden wholly." 

So he came 
Under the doorplaee, and the women sat. 
Each with her linger on her lips ; but he. 



fe, 



<• 5 



m 



s 



A STORY (>/■' DOOM. 



2S9 



Having been called, went on, until he reached 
The jewelled settle, wrought witli cunning work 
Of g(jld and ivory, whereon they wont 
To set tlie Elder. All with sleekest skins, 
That striped and spotted creatures of the wood 
Had worn, the seat v/as covered, but thereon 
The Elder was not : by the steps thereof, 
Upon the floor, wiiereto his silver b(.'ard 
Did reach, he sat, and he was in his trance. 
Upon the settle many dovus were perched. 
That set the air a-going with their wings : 
These opposite, tlie world's great shipwi-ight stood 
To wait the burden ; and the Elder spake : 
" Will He forget me ? Would He might forget ! 
Old, old ! The hope of old Methuselah 
Is all in His foi'getfulness." With that, 
A slave-girl took a cuj) of wine, and crept 
Anear him, saying, " Taste; " and when his lips 
Had touched it, lo, he trembled, and he cried, 
" Behold, I prophesy." 

Then straight they llctl 
That were about him, and did stand apart 
And stop their ears. Eor he, from time to time. 
Was plagued with that same fate to prophes}'. 
And spake against himself, against his day 
And time, in words that all men did abhor. 
Therefore lie, warning them what time the lit 
Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not. 
So while they fled, he cried : " I saw the God 
Reach out of heaven His wonderful I'ight hand. 
Lo, lo ! He dipped it in the niKjuiet sen. 
And in its curved palm beiiold tlie ark, 
As in a vast calm lake, came floating on. 
Ay, then, His other hand — the cursing hand — 
He took and spread between us and the sun. 
And all was black ; the day was blotted out. 
And hori'ilile staggei-ing took the frightiMl enrlh 



_rt7q- 



r. 



290 



A sjvA'r ()/■' y>c)OJ/. 



I heard the water liiss, and then inethiuks 

Tlie crack as of her splitting. Did she take 

Their pahices that are my l)rothers dear, 

And hncUUe them M'ith all their ancientry 

Under into her breast? If it was black, 

Mow conld this old man see? There was a noise 

r the dark, and He drew back His hand again. 

1 looked — It was :i, dream, — let no man say 

It was anght else. There, so — the fit goes by. 

Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide? — 

Sooner than that, saith old Methuselah, 

J^et the vulture lay his beak to my green limbs. 

What! art Thou envious? — are the sons of men 

Too wise to i)lease Thee, and to do Thy will? 

jNIethnselah, he sitteth on the ground. 

Clad in his gown of age, the i)ale white gown. 

And goeth not forth to war ; his wrinkled iiauds 

Ue claspeth round his knees : old, very old. 

Would he could steal from Thee one secret more — 

The secret of Thy youth ! O. envious God ! 

W^e die. The words of old INIethuselah 

And his [jropheey are ended." 

Then the wives, 
Beholding how he trembled, and the maids 
And children, came anear, saying, " Who art thou 
That staudest gazing on the Elder? Lo, 
Thou dost not well : withdraw ; for it was thon 
Whose stranger presence troubled him, and brought 
The lit t)f prophecy." And he did tmn 
To l<H)k upon them, and their majest}' 
And glorious beauty took away his words ; 
And, being pure among the vil(>, he cast 
In his thought a veil of snow-white purity 
OviT the beauteous throng. "Thou dost not well," 
Thev said. He answered : "• Blossoms o' tiie world. 
Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade. 



^ 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 



291 



Where in tlie youngest grass blue cups push forth, 

And the white lily reareth up her head, 

And purples cluster, and the saffron Uower, 

Clear as a Hanie of sacrifice, breaks out, 

And every cedar bougli, made delicate 

With climbing roses, drops in white and red, — 

Saw I (good angels keep you in their care) 

So beautiful a crowd." 

With that, they stamped. 
Gnashed their white teeth, and, turning, fled and spat 
Upon the floor. The Elder spake to him. 
Yet shaking with the burden, " Who art thou?" 
He answered : ''1, the man whom thou didst send 
To fetch through this thy woodland, do forbear 
To tell my name ; thou lovest it not, great sire, — 
No, nor mine errand. To thy house I spake, 
Touching their beauty." " Wherefore didst thou 

spite," 
Quolh he, " the daughters?" and it seemed he lost 
Count of that prophecy, for very age, 
4nd from his thin lips dropt a trembling laugh. 
" Wicked old man," qiioth he, " this wise old man 
I see as 'twere not J. Thou bad old man, 
What shall be done to thee? for thou didst l)uru 
Their babes, and strew the ashes all about. 
To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay, 
Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. 
Cowards ! I heard them winnow their great wings ; 
They weRt to tell Him ; but they came no more. 
The women hate to hear of them, so sore 
They grudged tlieir little ones ; and yet no way 
There was but that. I took it ; I did well." 

With that he fell to weeping. " Son," said he, 
" Long have I hid inine eyes from stalwart men, 
For it is hard to lose the majesty 
And pride and power of manhood : l)ut to-day. 



r 




29: 



A SJVJ^^ OF DOOM. 



Stiiud forth into the light, tliut 1 may look 
Upon thy strength, unci think, Evkn thus did 1, 
In tiik glouy of my youth, mokk like to God 
Than luvE His soldieks, face the vassal would." 

Then Noah stood forward in his majesty, 

Shonldering the golden billhook, wherewithal 

ile wont to cnt his way, when tangled in 

The matted hayes. And down the opened roof 

Pell slanting beams ui)on liis stately head, 

A.nd streamed along his gown, and made to shine 

The jewelled sandals on his feet. 

And, lo. 
The Elder cried alond : "I prophesy, 
liehold, m}' son is as a fruitful licld 
When all the lands are waste. The archers drew, — 
They drew the bow against him ; they were fain 
To slay : but he shall live, — my son shall live. 
And 1 shall live by him in the other days. 
Behold the projihet of the Most High God : 
Ih'ar him. Behold the hope o' the world, what time 
She lieth under. Hear him ; he shall save 
A seed alive, and sow the earth with man. 
O earth ! earth ! earth ! a floating shell of wood 
Shall hold the renmaut of thy mightv lords. 
Will this old man be in it? Sir, and you. 
My daughters, hear him ! Lo, this white old man 
He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be : 
Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue 
Ring with abhorred words?) The prophecy 
Of the Elder, and the vision that he saw. 
They both are ended." 

Then said Noah : '■'The life 
Of this my lord is low for very age : 
Why then, witli l)itter Avords upon thy tongue. 
Father of Lamech, dost thou auger Him? 



^ 



^ 



A STOKV OF DOOM. 293 

Thou ctmst not strive agtiinst liini now." He suid : 

" Thy feet ure toward the vulley, where Ue bones 

Bleiichhig upon the desert. Did 1 love 

The lithe strong lizards that I yoked and set 

To draw uiy ear ? luid were they not possessed ? 

Yea, all of thein were liars. 1 loved them well. 

What did the Enemy, but on a day 

Wlien I behind my talking team went forth, 

Tliey sweetly lying, so tliat all men praised 

Their flattering tongues and mild persuasive eyes, — 

What did the Enemy but send His slaves. 

Angels, to east down stones upon their heads 

And break them? Nay, I eould not stir abroad 

But havoc came ; they never crept or Hew 

Beyond tin; shelter that I builded here, 

But straight the crowns I had set upon their heads 

Were marks for myrmidons that in the clouds 

Kept watch to crush them. Can a man forgive 

That hath been warred on thus? I will not. Nay, 

I swear it, — I, the man Methuselah." 

The Master-shipwright, he replied, '' 'Tis true. 

Great loss was that ; but they that stood thy friends, 

The wicked spirits, si)oke up<m their tongues. 

And cursed the God of heaven. What marvel, sir. 

If He was angered ? " But the Elder cried : 

" They all are dead, — the toward beasts 1 loved ; 

My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead ; 

Their bones lie bleaching in the wilderness : 

And 1 will keep my wrath for evermore 

Against the Enemy that slew them, (io. 

Thou coward servant of a tyrant King, 

Go down the desert of the bones, and ask, 

' My King, what ])ones are thes(^? Methuselah, 

The white old man that sitteth on tlie ground, 

Sendeth a message, "• Bid them that they live. 

And let my lizards run up every patli 

They wont to take when out of silver pipes. 



294 



A STORV OF DOOM. 



The pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof, 

1 blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat 

Hath ever formed ; and while they laid their heads 

Submiss upon my tiu't'shold, poured away 

Music that welled by heartsful out, and made 

The throats of men that heard to swell, their breasts 

To heave with the joy of grief ; yea, caused the lips 

To laugh of men asleep. 

Return to me 
The great wise lizards ; ay, and them that flew 
My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke 
Again that multitude ; and here 1 swear 
That they shall draw ray car and me thereon 
Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know 
My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou 
Shalt yet have honor, O mine Enemj-, 
By me. The speech of old Methuselah." ' " 

Then Noah made answer, " By the living God, 

That is no enemy to men, great sire, 

I will not take thy niessage ; hear thou Him. 

'Behold (He saith that sutiereth thee), behold, 

The earth that 1 made green cries out to Me, 

Red with the costly blood of beauteous man. 

I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith) ; they sacrifice 

To evil demons of My blameless flocks, 

Tliat I did fashion with My hand. Behold, 

How goodly was the world ! I gave it thee 

Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done ? 

I will cry out to the waters, Cover it., 

And hide ft from its Father. Lo, Mine eyes 

Turn from it shamed.' " 

AV^ith that the old man laughed 
Full softly. " Ay," (pioth he, '' a goodly world, 
And we have done with it as we did list. 
Why did He give it us? Nay, look you, son : 



I 



A STORY OF JJOOM. 



295 



Five score they were tliat died ia yonder waste ; 

And if He crietb, ' Repent, be reconciled,' 

1 answer, ' Nay, m\' lizards ; ' and again, 

If He will tiouble me in this mine age, 

' Why hast Tlion slain my lizards?' Now my speech 

Is cut away from all my other words, 

Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it, 

Tlie man of many days, Methuselah." 

Then answered Noah, "My Master, hear it not; 
But yet have patience ; " and he turned himself, 
And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth. 
And in tlie liglit of evening made his way 
Into the waste to njeet the Voice of God. 



Above the head of great Methuselali 
There lay two demons in the opened roof 
Invisible, and gatliered up his words ; 
For when the Elder propiiesied, it came 
About, that hidden things were shown to them. 
And burdens that he spake against his time. 

(But never heard them, such as dwelt with him ; 
Their ears they stopped, and willed to live at ease 
In all delight ; and perfect in their youth, 
And strong, dis[)ort them in the perfect world.) 

Now these were fettered that they could not fly, 

For a certain disobedience the}' had wrought 

Against the ruler of their host ; but not 

The less they loved their cause ; and when the feet 

O' the Master-lniilder were no longer heard, 

They, slipping to the sward, right painfully 

Did follow, for the one to the other said, 

" Behooves our master know of this ; and us, 

Should he be favorable, he may loose 

From these our bonds." 



^" 



296 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



And thus it came to pass, 
That while at dead of night the old dragon lay 
Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch 
Pacing before it saw in middle air 
A boat, that gleamed like fire, and on it came, 
And rocked as it drew near, and then it bnrst 
And went to pieces, and there fell therefrom, 
Close at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls. 
Now there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth 
Of that deep cave, to testify of wratii. 
The dragon had been wroth with some that served. 
And chased them from him ; and his oracles. 
That wont to drop from him, were stopped, and men 
IMight only pray to him through that fell wel) 
Tho.t hung before him. Then did whisper low 
Some of the little spirits that, bat-like, clung 
And cluster'd round the opening. " Lo," they said, 
While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls, 
" These are like moons eclipsed ; but let them lie 
Red on the moss, and sear its dewy spires, 
Until our lord give leave to draw the web. 
And quicken reverence by his presence dread. 
For he will know and call to them by name. 
And they will change. At present he is sick, 
And wills that none disturb him." So they lay. 
And there was silence, for the forest tribes 
Came never near that cave. Wiser than men. 
They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night 
Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms 
That stalked among the trees, and in the dark 
Those whifts of flame that wandered up the sky 
And made the moonlight sickly. 

Now, the cave 
Was marvellous for beauty, wrought witii tools 
Into the living I'oek. for tliere liad worked 
All cunning men, to cut on it with siuns 



•^^ 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



297 



And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind. 
The fateful apple-tree was there, a bough 
Bent with the weight of him that ns beguiled ; 
And lilies of the field did seem to blow 
And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal sat, 
Who from his harp delivered music, sweet 
As an}" in the spheres. Yea, more ; 
Earth's latest wonder on the walls appeared. 
Unfinished, workmen clustering on its ribs ; 
And farther back, within the rock hewn out. 
Angelic figures stood, that impious hands 
Had fashioned ; many golden lamps they held 
By golden chains depending, and their eyes 
All tended in a reverent quietude 
Toward the couch whereon the dragon lay. 
The floor was beaten gold ; the curly lengths 
Of his last coils la}' on it, hid from sight 
With a coverlet made stiff with crusting gems, 
Fire-opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright eyes 
Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald, 
That changed their lustre when he breathed. 

His head. 
Feathered with crimson combs, and all his neck, 
And half-shut fans of his admired wings, 
That in their scaly splendor put to shame 
Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch 
And shivered ; for the di'agon suffered pain : 
He suffered and he feared. It was his doom. 
The tempter, that he never should depart 
From the bright creature that in Paradise 
He for his evil purpose erst possessed. 
Until it died. Thus only, spirit of might 
And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be free. 

But with its nature wed, as souls of men 
Are wedded to their clay, he took the dread 
Of death and dving, and the coward heart 



^ 




. H'r r 



298 



A SJ'OA'V OF DOOM. 



Of the beast, and craven terrors of the end 
8ank him that habited within it to dread 
Disunion, lie. a dark donhnion erst 
Rebellious, hiy and trembled, for the flesh 
Daunted his innnateiial. He was sick 
And sorry, (ireat ones of the earth had sent 
Their chief musicians for to comfort him, 
Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god 
That gave them knowledge, at so great a price 
And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine. 
And glorious broidered work, and woven gold, 
And all things wisely made, they at his feet 
Laid daily ; for they said, '' This mighty one. 
All the world wonders after him. He lieth 
Sick in his dwelling ; he hath long foregone 
(To do us good) dominion, and a throne, 
And his brave warfare with the Enemy, 
So much he pitieth us that were denied 
The gain and gladness of this knowledge. Now 
Shall he be certified of gratitude. 
And smell the sacrifice that most he loves." 

The night was dark, but every lamp gave forth 
A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous wings 
The dragon tluttered, cursed awhile, then turned 
And moaned with lamentable voice, " I thirst. 
Give me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste 
From inner chambers, lovely ministrants. 
Young boys, with radiant locks and peaceful eyes. 
And i)oured out liquor from their cups to cool 
His parched tongue, and kneeling held it nigh 
In jewelled basins sparkling; and he lapped. 
And was appeased, and said, " I will not hide 
Longer, my much-desired fnce from men. 
Draw back the web of separation." Then 
"With cries of gratnlation ran they forth, 
And fluno- it wide, and all the watch fell low. 



m 



^X7 



ilr 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



>99 



ICach on his face, as drunk with sudden joy. 
Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss, 
Those red rare moons, and let his serpent eyes 
Consider them full subtly, " What be these?" 
Inquiring : and the little spirits said, 
" As we for thy protection (having heard 
That wrathful sons of darkness walk to-night. 
Such as do oft ill-use us) clustered here, 
We marked a boat afire, that sailed the skies. 
And furrowed up like spray a billowy cloud. 
And lo, it went to pieces, scattering down 
A rain of sparks and these two angry moons." 
Then said the dragon, " Let my guard, and you. 
Attendant hosts, recede ; " and they went back. 
And formed about the cave a widening ring, 
Then, halting, stood afar ; and from the cave 
The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing tongue, 
''If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more." 

Then egg-like cracked the glowing balls, and forth 
Started black angels, trampling hard to free 
Their fettered feet from out the smoking shell. 

And he said, "Tartis and Deleisonon, 

Your lord I am : draw nigh." "Thou art our lord," 

They answered, and with fettered limbs full low 

They bent, and made obeisance. Furthermore, 

" O fiery fl3'ing serpent, after whom 

The nations go, let thy dominion last," 

They said, " forever." And the serpent said, 

" It shall : unfold your errand." They replied. 

One speaking for a space, and afterward 

His fellow taking up the word with fear. 

And panting, " We were set to watch the mouth 

Of grent Methuselah. There came to him 

The son of Lameeh two davs since." " ^Iv loi'd. 



lie 



-h£ 



300 



A STORV OF DOOM. 



They prophesied, the Elder prophesied, 

Unwitting, of the tloods of waters, — ay, 

A vision was before him, and the hinds 

Lay under water drowned. He saw the ark, — 

It floated in the Enemy's right hand." 

" Lord of the lost, the sou of Lameeh tied 

Into the wilderness to meet His voice 

That reigneth ; and we, diligent to hear 

Aught that might serve thee, followed, but, forbid 

To enter, lay upon its boundary elilf. 

And wished for morning." 

" "When the dawn was red 
"We sought the man, we marked him; and he 

prayed, — 
Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and said — " 
'• Nay," quoth the serpent, " spare me, what devout 
He fawning grovelled to the All-powerful ; 
But if of what shall hap he aught let fall, 
Speak that." They answered, "He did pray as one 
That looketh to outlive mankind, — and more, 
"We are certilied by all his scattered words. 
That Hk will take from men their length of days. 
And cut them otf like grass in its first flower : 
From henceforth this shall be." 

That when he heard, 
The dragon made to the night his moan. 

"And more," 
The}' said, •• that He above would have men knew 
That He doth love them, whoso will repent, 
To that man He is favorable, yea, 
Will be his loving Lord." 

The dragon cried, 
" The last is worse than all. () man. thy heart 
Is stout against His wrath. But will He love? 
I heard it rumored in the heavens of old 



m 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



301 



(And doth He love ?) . Thou wilt not, canst not, stand 
Against the love of God. Dominion fails ; 
1 see it float from me, that long have \v<jra 
Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God 1 
I cry against thee ; thou art worse than all." 
They answered, "Be not moved, admir^^d chief 
And trusted of mankind ; " and they went on, 
And fed him with the prophecies that fell 
From the Master-shipwright in his prayer. 

But prone 
He lay, for he was sick : at every word 
Prophetic cowering. As a bruising blow. 
It fell upon his head and daunted him, 
Until tliey ended, saving, " Prince, behold. 
Thy servants have revealed the whole." . 

Thereon 
He out of snak}' lips did kiss forth thanks. 
Then said he, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Receive 3'our wages." 80 their fetters fell ; 
And they, retiring, lauded him, and cried, 
" King, reign forever." Then he mourned, "Amen." 

And he, — being left alone, — he said : "A light ! 

I see a light, — a star among the ti'ees, — 

An angel." And it drew toward the cave. 

But with its sacred feet touched not the grass. 

Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes. 

But hung a span's length from that ground pollute, 

At the opening of the cave. 

And when he looked, 
The dragon cried, "Thou newly-fashioned thing, 
Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes thee not. 
Doth not thy Master suffer what thine eyes 
Thou couutest all too clean to open on ? " 
But still it hovered, and the quietness 




fiL-ir^ 



y 



I .S7(M')' or DOOM. 



Of holy lu^avon wns on tlic (li-oopiii!>; lids; 

And not- ;is i.n\(\ Mint :insvvi'i-('lli, il Id, CmII 

Tlic niusid from ils mouMi, but like to one 

That doth not licai', or, hearing-, dolJi not liccd. 

"A message: ' I lia\(> heard thee, wliile remote 

I went My rounds aniont;- the nnlinislied stars.' 

A message : ' 1 have Kill thee to thy ways, 

And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate 

1 ha\i' made to servt> I lie ends of ]\Iv great love. 

Hereafter will 1 chain thee down. To-day 

One lliing thou ai't forbiddtMi ; now thou kiiowest 

The nanu' (hereof: I told it thee in lieaven, 

When thou wert sitting at INly feet. l*'orl)ea,r 

To let (hat hidden thing !)(> whisperiMl forth: 

l^'or man, (mgralefnl (and thy hopi- it was. 

That so nngrati'ful he might prove), would scorn. 

And not bt'lieve it, adding so fri'sh weight 

Of eondenniaXion to the doomed worUl. 

(^)ncerning tJial, thou ait forbid to speak ; 

Know thou didst count it, falling I'rom IM \ (ongm^, 

A lovi'ly song, whosi^ nu'aning was unknown, 

I'nknowable, unbeai'able to thought, 

Hut sweeter in the he;ii-ing than all harps 

Toned in INIy holy hollow. Now thin(> e.ars 

.Are opened, know il. .Miid discern ;ind fe.ar. 

Forbearing speech of it, for evermore.'" . 

So said, it tni-iied, and with a eiT of joy. 
As one rele:iscd, weid up ; and i(, was dawn, 
.And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist 
(':nne (he red sun and looked into the eave. 

Hut (111" dr:igon, lef(, a,-ti-emble, c:dled to him. 
From the nether kingdom, certain of his friends, — 
Three whom lu> ti'iisted, councillors accursed. 
A thnnder-cloutl stooped low and swathed the place 
In its black swii'ls, and out of it (hey i'iisIumI, 



yji 



^ 



^ 



A SJ'Oh'V ()/'' JXJUM. 



l^l 



AikI liid tli(!iri in rcccssf's of tlic; c.ive, 
I>(!(':iii.sc tlh'y could not, look upon Uk; wnn, 
Silli light iw pine. And Siitun cjillod Lo tlicin, — 
All in the; diu-k, in his irr'cut r!io(! lu; .sjKikc : 
" Up," quoth till! driif^-on ; '' it i.s tinu; to work, 
Or w(! !ir(! ;ill undone." And lu; did lii.ss, 
And there cMiiie sliiidderin<iK ov(;r hind iiiid trees, 
A dimness ul'ti-r (l:iwn. The ejiilh tiirew (Hit 
A })lindin(^ foi^, that crept toward the cave, 
And rolled up blank before it like a veil, — 
A curtain to conceal its habiters. 
Then did those spirits move upon tlu; floor, 
i>ik(! pillars of darkn(!ss, and with eyes aglow. 
()n(; had !i, helm I'or covering of the sears 
That seamed what rested of a goodl}' face ; 
He won; his vizor uj), and all his wf)rds 
Were hollower than an (!(;lio from the; hills: 
II<! was liight iMake. And lo, his fellow-liend 
Came after, holding d(jwn his dastard h(!ad, 
Like one ashamed : now this for crall was grcsat ; 
The dragon honored him. A thiid sat down 
Among them, covering with his wasted hand 
Somewhat that p:i,iii(;d his lirijast. 

And when tin; fit 
Of tliund(!r, :ind Uk; sob})ings of the wind, 
Were lulled, the dragon spoke with wrath and rage, 
And told them of his matt(;rs : " Look to this, 
If ye be loyal ; " adding, "(live your thoughts, 
And let me have your counsel in this need." 

One spirit rose and spake, and all the cave 

Was full of sighs, " The words of Make the Prince, 

Of him once delegate in I>etelgeux : 

Whereas of late; tin; manner is to change, 

We know not where 'twill end ; and now my words 

Go thus : give way, be peaceable, lie still 



IH=^ :— trK 



ra 



TT 



w 



3^H 



./ sro/yH' 0J-' nooM. 



And strive not, else the world that we have won 
He may, to drive us out, reduce to uaught. 

''For while 1 stood iu uiiue obedieuoe yet, 

Steeriug of Betelgeux uiy sun, behold, 

A moon, that evil ones did lill, rolled up 

Astray, and suddenly the Master eanie. 

And while, a million strong, like rooks tliey rose. 

He took and broke it. Hung it here and there. 

And called a blast to tirive the powder forth ; 

And it was tine as dust, and blurred the skies 

Farther than 'tis from hence to this young sun. 

Spirits that passed upon their work that day. 

Cried out, 'How dusty 'tis.' Behooves us, then. 

That we depart, as leaving unto Him 

This goodly world and goodly race of man. 

Not all are doomed : hereafter it may be 

That we tind place on it again. But if, 

Too zealous to preserve it, and the men 

Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come, 

Aud, choosing rather to undo His work 

Than strive with it for aye, make so an end." 

He sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed 

In impotent rage, "Depart I aud how depart I 

Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn ? 

Or I, most miserable, hold my life 

Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide 

The bntfetings of yonder shoreless sea ? 

O death, thou terrible doom : O death, thou dread 

Of all tlu\t breathe." 

A spirit rose and spake : 
•• AVhereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear ; 
For this admirC'd couutry we have marred. 
AVhereas in Heaven is love (aud there are days 
When yet I can recall what love was liki>) . 
Is naught to fear. A threatening makes tlie whole. 
And clogged with stroug conditions : ' O. ri>peut. 






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u 



305 



Man, and I turn.' He, therefore, powerful now, 

And more so, master, that ye bide in clay, 

Threateneth that lie may save. They shall not die." 

The dragon sairl, '• I tremble, 1 am sick." 

He said with pain of heart, "How am I fallen \ 

For I lieep silence ; yea, I have withdiawn 

From haunting of His gates, and shouting up 

Defiance. Wherefore doth He Ijunt me out 

From tiiis small world, this little one, that I 

Have been content to take unto myself, 

I here being loved and worshipped-' He knoweth 

How much 1 have foregone ; and i.iust He stoop 

To whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep, 

Of purpose to pursue me from my place? 

And since I gave men knowledge, must He take 

Their length of days whereby they perfect it? 

So shall He scatter all that 1 have stored, 

And get them by degrading them. I know 

That in the end it is appointed me 

To fade. I will not fade before the time." 

A spirit rose, the third, a spirit ashamed 

And subtle, and his face he turned aside : 

"Whereas," said he, " we strive against both power 

And love, behooves us that we strive aright. 

Now some of old my comrades yesterda}-, 

I met, as they did journey to appear 

In the Presence ; and I said, ' My master lieth 

Sick 3-onder, otherwise (for no decree 

There stands against it) he would also come 

And make obeisance with the sons of God.' 

They answered, naught denying. Therefore, lord 

'Tis certain that ye have admittance yet ; 

And what doth hinder? Nothing but this breath. 

Were it not well to make an end, and die, 

And gain admittance to the King of kings? 



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./ ^vyUA'j- OJ' DOOM. 



"What if tliv slaves bv thy consent should take 
Ami boar thee on thou- wings above the eailh, 
And suddenly let fall, — how soon 'twere o'er! 
We should have fear and sinking at the heart ; 
But in a little niomeiit we should see, 
Rising majestic from a ruined heap, 
The stately spirit that we served of yore." 

The serpent turned his snlule deadly eyes 

Ui)on tlie spirit, and hissed; and, siek wilh shame, 

It bowed itself t(»gether, and went back 

AVith hitlden face. " This counsel is not good," 

The other twain nuule answer ; '' look, my lord. 

Whereas 'tis evil in thine eyes, in ours 

'Tis evil also ; speak, for we perceive 

That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit. 

Ready to lly to our right greedy ears. 

That long for them." And Satan, flattered thus 

(Forever may the serpent kind l>e t-iiarmed 

AVith soft, sweet words, and nuisic (.leftlv played), 

Replied, " AVhereas I surely rule the world, 

Behooves that ye prepare for me a i)atli. 

And that I, pulling of my pains asiile. 

Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts 

0' the giants ; for lie loveth them, and looks 

Full oft complacent on their glorious strength. 

He willetli tliat Ihey yield, that lie may s[)are ; 

But, by the blacknciss of my loathetl ilen, 

I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield ; 

(u), therefore, take to you some harmless guise, 

An<I spread a rumor that I come. I. sick. 

Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard 

AVhispei-s that out of heaven dropjied unaware. 

I cauglit them uj), and sitli they bode men harm 

I am ready for to comfort them ; yea, more. 

To counsel, and I will that they drive forth 

The women, the abhorred of niv soul ; 



A STORY OF J)OOM. 



3^7 



Let not a woman breathe where 1 sliall pass, 

Lest the curse falleth, and she bruise my head. 

Friends, if it ])e their mind to send for me 

An army, and Iriiiinphant draw me on 

In tlio golden car you wot of, and with shouts, 

I would not that ye hinder tliem. Ah, then 

Will I make hard their hearts, and grieve Ilim sore 

That loves them, O, by much too well to wet 

Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strength 

Under the fateful brine. Then afterward, 

While lie doth reason vainly with them, I 

Will offer Him a pact : ' Great King, a pact. 

And men shall worship Thee, I say they shall, 

For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave 

To sacrifice tlieir kind, so Thou my name 

Wilt suffer to be worshipped after Thine.' " 

" Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, " do tliis thing, 

And let us hear thy words, for they are sweet." 

Then he made answer, " By a messenger 

Have I this day been warned. There is a deed 

I may not tell of, lest the people add 

Scorn of a Coming Greatness to tlicir faults. 

Why this? AVho careth, when about to slay. 

And slay indeed, how well they have deserved 

Death whom he slayeth? Therefore yet is hid 

A meaning of some mercy that will rob 

The nether world. Now look to it, — 'Twere vain. 

Albeit this deluge He would send indeed, 

That we expect the harvest ; He would yet 

Be the Master-reaper ; for I heard it said. 

Them that l»e young and know Him not, and them 

That are bound and may not build, yea, more, tiieii 

wives. 
Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, they keep 
Joyous behind the curtains, every one 
With maidens nourished in the house, and Itabes 




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.1 sjvj\:r OF DOOM. 



And children at lier kuees — (then what remain !) 

He claimeth and will gather for His own. 

Now, therefore, it were good by gnile to work. 

Princes, and suffer not the doom to fall. 

There is no evil like to love. I heard 

Ilim wliis{)cr it. Have I put on this flesh 

To ruin His two children beautiful, 

And shall my deed confound me in the end, 

Through awful imitation ? Love of ( Jod, 

I crv ao-ainst thee ; thou art worst of all." 



^ 



lK>OK IV. 

Now while these evil ones took counsel strange, 
The son of Lamech journeyed home ; and, lo ! 
A company came down, and struck the track 
As he did enter it. There rode in front 
Two horsemen, young and noble, and behind 
Were following slaves with tent gear ; others led 
Strong horses, others bare the instruments 
O' the chase, and in the rear dull camels lagged. 
Sighing, for they were burdened, and they loved 
The desert sands above that grassy vale. 

And as they met, those liorsemen drew the rein, 
And lixed on him their grave untroubled eyes ; 
He in his regal grandeur walked alone, 
And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien 
Was grave and like to theirs. He said to them, 
" Fair sirs, whose are 3'e ? " They made answer cold, 
•• The beautiful woman, sir. our mother dear, 
Niloij'a, bare us to great Lamech's son." 
And he, replying, '• I am he." They said, 
" AYe know it, sir. We have remembered you 
Through many seasons. Pray you let us not; 
We fain would greet our mother." And they made 
Obeisance and passed on ; then all their train, 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 309 

Which while they spoke had halted, moved apace, 
And, while the silent father stood, went bj-. 
He gazing after, as a man that dreams ; 
For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn, 
That seemed to say, '' Father, we own you not. 
We love you not, for you have left us long, — 
So long, we care not that you come again." 

And while the sullen camels moved, he spake 

To him that led the last, "• There are but two 

Of these m}^ sons ; but where doth Japhet ride ? 

For I would see him." And the leader said, 

" Sir, ye shall find him, if ^-e follow up 

Along the track. Afore the noonday meal 

The young men, even our masters, bathed ; (there 

grows 
A clump of cedars by the bend of yon 
Clear river) — there did Japhet, after meat, 
Being right weary, lay him down and sleep. 
There, with a company of slaves and some 
Few camels, ye shall find him." 

And the man. 
The father of these three, did let him pass. 
And struggle and give battle to his heart. 
Standing as motionless as pillar set 
To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste ; 
But all his strength went from him, and he strove 
Vainly to trample out and trample down 
The misery of his love unsatisfied, — 
Unutterable love flung in his face. 
Then he broke out in passionate words, that cried 
Against his lot : "I have lost my own, and won 
None other ; no, not one ! Alas, my sons ! 
That T have looked to for my solacing. 
In the bitterness to come. My children dear ! " 




31" 



A STORV OF DOOM. 



And Avheu from his own lips he heard those words, 
With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept. 

And none came near to comfort liim. Ilis face 

Was on the ground ; hut liaving wept, he rose 

Full hastily, and urged his way to find 

The river ; and in hollow of his hand 

liaised up the water to his brow : " This son, 

Tliis otlier son of mine," he said, " sliall see 

No tears upon my face." And he looked on, 

Belield the camels, and a groui) of slaves 

Sitting apart from some one fast asleep, 

AVIiere they had spread out webs of broider}' work 

Under a cedar-tree ; and he came on. 

And when tliey made obeisance, he declared 

His name, and said, " I will beside my son 

Sit till he wakeneth." So Japhet lay 

A-dreaming, and his father drew to him. 

He said, " This caiuiot scorn me yet ; " and paused, 

Kight angrv with liimself, because the youth, 

Albeit of stately growtli, so languidly 

Lay with a listless smile upon his mouth. 

That was full sweet and [)ure ; and as he looked 

He half forgot his trouble in his pride. 

" And is this mine?" said he, " my son ! my own ! 

(God, thou art good !) O, if this turn away. 

That pang shall be past bearing. 1 must think 

That all the sweetness of his goodly face 

Is copied from his soul. How beautiful 

Are children to their fathers ! Son, my heart 

Is greatly glad because of thee ; my life 

Shall lack of no completeness in the da^'s 

To come. If I forget the }oy of youth. 

In thee shall I be comforted ; ay, see 

My youth, a dearer than ni}' own again." 

And when he ceased, the youth, with sleep content, 
JMurnuu-ed a little, turned himself, and woke. 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 



311 



He woke, and opened on his father's face 

The darkness of his eyes ; but not a word 

The Master-shipwright said, — his lips were sealed; 

He was not ready, for he feared to see 

This mouth curled up with scorn. And Ja^jhet 

spoke, 
Full of the calm that cometh after sleep : 
" Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray you, sir, 
What is your name ? " and even with his words 
His countenance changed. The son of Lamech said, 
" Why art thou sad? What have I done to thee ? " 
And Japhet answered, " O, methought 1 fled 
In the wilderness before a maddened beast, 
And you came up and slew it ; and I thought 
You were my father ; but I fear nie, sir. 
My thoughts were vain." With that his father said, 
" Whate'er of blessing Thou reserv'st for me, 
God ! if Thou wilt not give to both, give here : 
Bless him with both Thy hands ; " and laid his own 
On Japhet's head. 

Then Japhet looked on him, 
Made quiet by content, and answered low. 
With faltering laughter, glad and reverent: " Sir, 
You are my father? " " Ay," quoth he, " I am ! 
Kiss me, my son ; and let me hear my name. 
My much desired name, from your dear lips." 

Then after, rested, they betook them home : 

And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought, 

" I did not will to love this sire of mine ; 

But now I feel as if I had always known 

And loved him well ; truly, I see not why, 

But I would rather serve hira than go free 

With my two brethren." And he said to him, 

" Father ! " — who answered, " I am liere, my son." 

And Japhet said, " I pray you, sir, attend 



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312 



A srojn' oj' DOOM. 



To this my nnswor : let me go with you, 

For, now I think on it, 1 do not love 

'I'he ('JKise, nor ni:in:itiini>; tlie steed, nor yet 

Tlu! iiirows iuid the bow ; but iiither you, 

For all you do and say, and you yourself, 

Are goodly :ind delightsome in mine eyes. 

1 pray you, sir, when 30U go forth again. 

That I may also go." And he replied, 

" I will tell thy speech unto the Highest; He 

Shall answer it. But I would speak to thee 

Now of the days to come. Know thou, most dear, 

To this thy father, that the drenched world, 

^^'hen risen clean washed from water, shall receive 

Fiom thee her lordliest governors, from thee 

Daughters of noblest soul." 

So Japhet said, 
" Sir, I am young, luit of my mother straight 
1 will go ask a wife, that this may be. 
i pr.M}' you, therefore, as the manner is 
Of fathers, give me huid that I may reap 
Coi'u for sustaining of my wife, ;iud bruise 
The fruit of the vine to elieer her." P.ut he said, 
" Dost thou forget? or dost thou not believe, 
INly son? " He answered, '•■ I did ni''er belii've, 
]My father, ere to-day ; but now, methinks, 
Whatever tiiou belicvest I lieTu've, 
For thy belovc'^d sake. If this then be 
As thou (1 hear) hast said, and eai'th doth bear 
The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe 
The latest of her grai)es ; yet hear me, sir, 
None of the daughters shall be givcMi to me 
If 1 be landless." Then his father said, 
" Lift up thine eyes towards the north, my sou : " 
And so lie did. '•'• liehold thy heritage ! " 
Quoth the world's prince and master, "-far away 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 



313 



Upon the side o' the north, where green the field 

Lies every season through, and where the dews 

Of heaven are wholesome, shall th}' children reign ; 

1 part it to them, for the earth is mine ; 

The Highest gave it me : 1 make it theirs. 

Moreover for thy marriage gift, behold 

Tlie cedars where thou sleepedst ! There are vines ; 

And up the rise is growing wheat. I give 

(For all, alas ! is mine), — I give thee both 

For dowry, and my blessing." 

And he said, 
" Sir, you are good, and therefore the Most High 
Shall bless me also. Sir, 1 love you well." 

BOOK V. 

And when two days were over, Japhet said, 

" Mother, so please you, get a wife for me." 

The mother answered, " Dost thou mock mi;, son? 

'Tis not the manner of our kin to wed 

So young. Thou knowest it ; art thou not ashamed? 

Thou carest not for a wife." And the youth })lushed, 

And made for answer: "This, my father, saith 

The doom is nigh ; now, tliereforc, find a maid, 

Or else shall I be wifeless all my days. 

And as for me, I care not ; but the lands 

Are parted, and the goodliest share is mine. 

And lo ! my brethren are betrothed ; their maids 

Are with thee in tlu; house. Then why not mine? 

Didst thou not diligently search for these 

Among the noblest born of all the earth. 

And bring them up? My sisters, dwell they not 

With women that bespeak them for their sons? 

Now, therefore, let a wife be found for me, 

Fair as the day, and gentle to my will 

As thou art to my father's." When she heard. 



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/ s'jvyn' OF DOOM. 



Niloiyn, sighed, and answered, "It is well." 
And .lapliet went out from her presence. 

Then 
(^iiolli llic gi'cnt INlasUn' : "• Whcrei'ore sought \e not, 
Woumn, these niany days, nor tired at all. 
Till ye had Ibund, a maiden for thy son? 
In this ye have done ill." Niloiyasaid: 
^ Let not my lord be angry. All my soul 
Is sa-d : my lord hath walked afar so long, 
'i'hat some despise lliee ; yea, oui' servants fail 
Lately tcj bring their stint of corn and wood. 
And, sir, thy houseliold slaves do steal away 
To thy great fathei-, and oui- lands lii' waste, — 
None till theiu : therefore; think the women scorn 
'1\) give me — whatsoever gems I send. 
And goodly raiment (yea, I seek afar, 
And sue with all desire and humbleness 
Through evi'ry master's house, but. no one gives) — 
A daughter lor my son." \\'illi that she ceased. 

Then said the Master: '' Some thou hast with thee, 

Jirought u|) among thy children, dutiful 

And fair; thy father gave them for my slaves, — 

Childceu of them whom iu' brought captive forth 

From their own hei-itage." And she replied, 

Hight scornfully : '' Shall .laphet wed a slave?" 

Then said the INLasler : '' IIi' shall wed: look thou 

'1\) that. I say iu)t he sludl wi'd a slave ; 

IJut. by tiie might of One that made him mine, 

I will not (|uit thee for my doouu'^d way 

liilil thou wilt belrolh him. 'ilierel\)re, haste, 

IJe.Mntifiil woni:in, lo\('d of me ami mine, 

To bring :i maitlen, and to say, ' Behold 

A wife for daphet.'" Then she answered, '' Sir, 

it sli:dl be done." 

And foi'th Niloiy:i sped. 
Slu" gathered all her jewels, — all she held 



^^ 



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./ SJVR\' Of DOUM. 



3'5 



Of costly or of rich, — and went und spake 

With some few slaves tli:it yet sibode witli her, 

P^or daily they were fewer ; and went forth, 

Witii fair and flattering words, amcjng her feres. 

And fain had wronglit witli tiieni : and she iiad ho[)e 

Tliafc made her sick, it was so faint; and tiien 

She h;id rc:ii-, and iiCtcr she hiid certainty. 

For all did scorn hci-. " Nay," they cried, " () f(jol ! 

If this ])(^ so, and on a watoi-y world 

Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife 

Be fr(!e or bond ? Tiicre shall be none to rule, 

If she have riccdom : if she have it not. 

None shall there; Ik' to serve." 

And she alit. 
The time being done, desponding at her door. 
And went behind a sctreen, where should have 

wrong! it 
The dMughlers <jf thc! cajjtives ; ])ut there wrongiit 
One oidy, and tiiis rose from off tlie floor, 
Where she the ri\ci' iiish full deftly wove. 
And made obeisance. '1 hen Niloiya said, 
" Where are thy fellows? " And the maid replied, 
"Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved. 
Be angry ; they are lied since yesternight." 
Then said Niloiya, "Amarant, my slave, 
When have I called thee by thy name before? " 
She answered, " Lady, never; " and she took 
And spread her broidered robe before Jier face. 
Niloiya spoke thns : " I am conie to woe. 
And thou to honoi'." Saying this she wept 
Passionate tears ; and all the damsel's soul 
Was full of yearning wonder, and her robe 
Slipped from her hand, and her right innocent face 
Was seen b(;twixt her locks of tawny hair 
That dropped about her knees, and her two eyes, 
Jilne as the mucli-lo\'etl flower that i-ims tiie beck 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 



Looked sweetly on Niloiya ; but she knew 
No meaning in her words ; and she drew nigh, 
Aud kneeled and said, " Will this my lady speak? 
Her damsel is desirous of her words." 
Then said Niloiya, '' I, thy mistress, sought 
A wife for Japhet, and no wife is found." 
And yet again she wept witli grief of heart, 
Saying, " Ah me, miserable ! I must give 
A wife, — the Master willeth it, — a wife, 
Ah mo ! unto the high-born. He will scorn 
His mother aud reproach me. I must give — 
None else have I to give — a slave — even thee." 
This further spake Niloiya : " I was good, — 
Had rue on thee, a tender sucking child. 
When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast 
I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I taught 
Thy hands all cunning arts that women prize. 
But out on me ! my good is turned to ill. 

Japhet, well beloved ! " And she rose up, 

And did restrain herself, saying, " Dost thou know? 
Behold, this thiug shall be." The damsel sighed, 
"Lady, I do." Then went Niloiya forth. 

And Amarant murmui'ed in her deep amaze, 
" Shall Japhet's little children kiss my mouth? 
And will he sometimes take them from my arms, 
Aud almost care for me for their sweet sake? 

1 have not dared to thiuk I loved hiui, — now 
I know it well : but O, the bitterness 

For him ! " Aud ending thus, the damsel rose, 
For Japhet entered. Aud she bowed herself 
Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood 
Ran cold about her heart, for all his face 
Was colored with his passion. 

Japhet spoke : 
He said, " My father's slave ; " and she replied. 
Low droopiug her fair head, "My master's sou," 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



317 



And after that a silence fell on them, 

With trembling at her heart, and rage at his. 

And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat 

And could not speak. O, cruel seemed his fate, — 

So cruel he that told it, so unkind. 

His breast was full of wounded love and wrath 

Wrestling together ; and his eyes flashed out 

Indignant lights, as all amazed he took 

The insult home that she had offered him, 

Who should have held his honor dear. 

And, lo, 
The misery choked him, and he cried in pain, 
" Go, get thee forth ; " but she, all white and still, 
Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake not, 
Nor moved. And Japhet rose up passionate. 
With lifted arm as one about to strike ; 
But she cried out and met him, and she held 
With desperate might his hand, and prayed to him, 
'' Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say, 
' Japhet is like to us.' " And he shook off 
The damsel, and he said, " I thank thee, slave; 
For never have I stricken yet or child 
Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad. 
Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey my words." 
Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and wept. 

And no more he restrained himself, but cried. 
With heavings of the heart, " O hateful day! 
O day that shuts the door upon delight ! 
A slave ! to wed a slave ! O loathed wife, 
Hated of Japhet's soul." And after, long. 
With face between his hands, he sat, his thoughts 
Sullen and sore ; then scorned himself, and saying, 
" I will not take her, I will die unwed. 
It is but that ; " lift up his eyes and saw 
The slave, and she was sitting at his feet. 





3i8 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



And he, so greatly woiideriiig- that she dared 
The disobedience, looked her in tlie face 
Less angry than afraid, for pale she was 
As lily yet uusmiled on by the sun ; 
And he, his passion being spent, sighed out, 
"Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou no fear, 
That thou dost flout me ? " but she gave to him 
The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned, 
" No." 

And he wondered, and he looked again, 
For in her heart there was a new-born pang. 
That cried ; but she, as mothers with their young. 
Suffered, yet loved it ; and there shone a strange 
Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied eyes. 
And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought, 
"What is it? I will call her by her name. 
To comfort her, for also she is naught 
To blame ; and since I will not her to wife, 
iShe falls back from the freedom she had hoped." 
Then he said " Amarant ; " and the damsel drew 
Her eyes down slowly from the shaded sky 
Of even, and she said, " My master's son, 
Japhet ;" and Japhet said, "I am not wroth 
With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed, 
Because she shamed me." 

And the maiden said, 
" Doth not thy father love thee well, sweet sir? " 
"Ay," quoth he, "well." She answered, "Let 

the heart 
Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him 
And say, ' The damsel whom my mother chose 
Sits by her in the house ; but as for me. 
Sire, ere I take her, let me go with you 
To that same outlaud country. Also, sir, 
My damsel hath not worked as yet the robe 




A STORY OF DOOM. 



319 



Of her betrothal ; ' now, then, sith he k)ves, 
He will not say thee nay. Herein for awhile 
Is respite, and thy mother far and near 
Will seek again : it maj- be she will find 
A fair, free maiden." 

Japhet said, " O maid. 
Sweet are th}' words ; but what if I return, 
And all again be as it is to-day? " 
Then Araarant answered, " Some have died iu youth ; 
But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die. 
Though ye shall find it even as I had died, — 
Silent for any words I might have said ; 
Empty, for an}' space I might have filled. 
Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar ; 
But if a wife be found, then will I bide 
And serve." He answered, " O, thy speech is good ; 
Now, therefore (since my mother g'ave me thee), 
I will reward it ; I will find for thee 
A goodl}' husband, and will make him free ; 
Thee also." 

Then she started from his feet. 
And, red with shame and auger, flashed on him 
The i)assion of her eyes ; and put her hands 
With catching of the breath to her fair throat, 
And stood in her defiance lost to fear. 
Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned 
And brought to bay, and wild in her despair. 
But shortly, " I remember," quoth she, low. 
With raining down of tears and broken sighs, 
" That I am Japhet' s slave ; beseech you, sir, 
As ye were ever gentle, ay. and sweet 
Of language to me, be not harder now. 
Sir, I was yours to take ; I knew not, sir. 
That also ye might give me. Pray you, sir. 
Be pitiful, — be merciful to me, 
A slave." He said, "■ I thought to do thee good, 



V 



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320 



A SrORY OF DOOM. 



For good hath been thy counsel ; " but she cried, 

" Good master, be 30U therefore pitiful 

To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered much 

At her, and at her beauty, for he thought, 

" None of the daughters are so fair as this, 

Nor stand with such a grace majestical ; 

She in her locks is like the travelling sun, 

Setting, all clad in coifing clouds of gold. 

And would she die unmatched?" He said to her, 

" What ! wilt thou sail alone in yonder ship. 

And dwell alone hereafter?" " Ay," she said, 

" And serve my mistress." 

" It is well," quoth he. 
And held his hand to her, as is the way 
Of masters. Then she kissed it, and she said, 
"Thanks for benevolence," and turned herself, 
Adding, " I rest, sir, on your gracious words ; " 
Then stepped into tlie twilight and was gone. 

And Japhet, having found his father, said, 

"• Sir, let me also journey when ye go." 

Who answered, ' ' Hath thy mother done her part ? " 

He said, ''Yea, truly, and my damsel sits 

Before her in the house : and also, sir. 

She said to me, ' I have not worked, as yet. 

The garment of betrothal.'" And he said, 

" ' Tis not the manner of our kin to speak 

Concerning matters that a woman rules ; 

But hath thy mother brought a damsel home, 

And let her see thy face, then all is one 

As ye were wed." He answered, " Even so. 

It matters nothing ; therefore hear me, sir : 

The damsel being mine, I am content 

To let her do according to her will ; 

And when we shall return, so surely, sir. 

As I shall find her by my mother's side, 



^'^ 






A STOKV OF DOOM. 



321 



Then will I take her : " and he left to speak ; 

His father answering, " Son, thy words are good." 

BOOK VI. 

Night. Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat 
In the door and watched, for on a litter lay 
The father of his love. And he was sick 
To death ; but daily he would rouse him up. 
And stare upon the light, and ever say, 
" On, let us journey ; " but it came to pass 
That night, across their path a river ran. 
And they who served the father and the son 
Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made 
A fire to scare away the savagery 
That roamed in that gi'eat forest, for their way 
Had led among the trees of God. 

The moon 
Shone on the river, like a silver road 
To lead them over ; but when Japhet looked. 
He said, " We shall not cross it. I shall la}' 
This well-belov6d head low in the leaves, — 
Not on the farther side." From time to time, 
The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow 
With curling undulations, and would lay 
Their heads along the banks, and, subtle-eyed, 
Consider those long spirting flames, that danced, 
AYhen some red log would break and crumble down. 
And sliow his dark despondent eyes, that watched, 
Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared 
Little ; and in the dark, that was not dark, 
But dimness of confused incertitude. 
Would move a-near all silently, and gaze 
And breathe, and shape itself, a man^d thing 
With ej'es ; and still he cared not, and the form 
Would falter, then recede, and melt again 



2,22 



A Sl^ORV OF DOOM. 



Into the farther shade. Aud Japhet said : 
*•' How long? The moon hath grown again in lieavcK, 
After her caving twice, since we did leave 
The threshold of our home ; and now what 'vails 
That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled, 
Hungry, and weary, all the day ; by night 
Waked with a dreadful trembli::;g underneath. 
To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran 
Red brooks adown, that licked the forest up. 
While in the pale white ashes wading on 
AVe saw no stars? — what 'vails if afterward. 
Astonished with great silence, we did move 
Over the measureless, unknown desert mead; 
While all the day, in rents and crevices, 
Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind, 
Drowsy ; and in the night take fearsome shajies. 
And ofttimes woman-faced and woman-haired 
Would trail their snaky length, and curse and inourn ; 
Or there would wander up, when we were tired. 
Dark troops of evil ones, witli eyes morose. 
Withstanding us, and staring; — O, what 'vails 
That in the dread deep forest we have fought 
With following packs of wolves ? These men of might, 
Even the giants, shall not hear the doom 
My father came to tell them of. Ah me ! 
If God indeed had sent him, would he lie 
(For he is stricken with a sore disease) 
Helpless outside their city? " 

Then he rose, 
And put aside the curtains of the tent. 
To look upon his father's face ; and lo ! 
The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat 
Beside the litter ; and he set his eyes 
To see it, and saw not ; but only mai'ked 
Where, fallen away from manhood and from power, 
Ilis father lav. Then he came forth again, 



-4—' 



I 






A STORY OF DOOM. 



323 



Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire. 

And murmured, '' Now it is the second time : 

An old man, as I think (but scarcely saw) , 

Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool : 

I dared not look ; perhaps I saw not aught, 

But only knew that it was there ; the same 

Which walked beside us once when he did pray." 

And Japhet hid his face between his hands 

For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness 

Of watching ; and he slumbered not, but mourned 

To himself, a little moment, as it seemed. 

For sake of his loved father ; then he lift 

Ilis eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly 

The moon withheld her silver, and she hung 

Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played 

By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the flood, 

Crept red amongst the logs, and all the world 

And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars 

Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched 

The feathered heads of palms, and green was born 

Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew 

Like veils across the mountains ; and he saw. 

Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace, 

And the sacredness of morn, the battlements 

And outposts of the giants ; and there ran 

On the other side the river, as it were, 

White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair, 

And towers below a line of inland cliff : 

These were their fastnesses, and here their homes. 

In valleys and the forest, all that night, 
There had been woe ; in every hollow place, 
And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow. 
Women lay mourning ; for the serpent lodged 
That night within the gates, and had decreed, 
" I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out 
The women, the abhorred of mv soul." 



^ 



'W 



^^Ei^ 



324 



.1 SJVAi' OF DOOM. 



Tlu'refore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom, 

I'urple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs, 

Or nights of azure doves that lit to drink 

Tlio water of tlu> river; or, new born, 

The quivering butterflies in companies, 

That slowly crei)t adown tlie sandy marge, 

Like living crocus beds, and also drai>k. 

And rose an orange cloud ; their hollowed hands 

'i'liey dipi)ed between the lilies, or witli robes 

Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled and ate. 

Weeping ; or comforting their little ones. 

And lulling them with sorrowful long hymns 

Among the palms. 

So went the earlier morn. 
Then came a messenger, while Japhet sat 
IMourufully, and lie said, "The men of might 
Are willing ; let tiiy master, youth, appear." 
And Japhet said, "So be it; " and he thought, 
" Now will I trust in God ; " and he went in 
And stood before his father, and he said, 
" iMy fatluM' ; " but the INlaster answered not. 
Hut gazeil upon the curtains of his tent. 
Nor knew that one iiad called him. lie w.-is chid 
As ready for the journey, and his I'eet 
Were sandalled, and his stalY was at his side ; 
And daphet toolc the gown of sacrilice 
And spread it on him, and he laid his crown 
Upon his knees, and lie wimt forth, and lift 
Ilis hand to heaven, and cried, " INIy father's (iod I " 
Hut neither whisper came nor echo fell 
When lie ditl listen. Therefore he went on : 
" Heboid, 1 liave a thing to say to thee. 
My father charged thy servant, ' Let not ruth 
Prevail with thee to turn and bear me lience. 
For (iod appointt'd me my task, to preach 
liefore the mighty.' I must do my part 



^QS 



^ 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



325 



(O, let it not displease thee), for he said 
lint yesternight, ' When the}' shall send for me, 
Take me before them.' And I swarc to him. 
I pray thee, therefore, count his life and mine 
Precious : for I that sware, I will perform." 

Then cried he to his people, " Let us hence ; 
Take up the litter." And they set their feet 
Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood. 

And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat 

Within the fairest hall where all were fair, 

Each on his carven throne, o'er-canopied 

With work of women. And the dragon lay 

In a place of honor ; and with subtlety 

He counselled them, for they did speak by turns ; 

And they, being proud, might nothing master them 

But guile alone : and he did fawn on them ; 

And when the younger one taunted him, submiss 

He testified great humbleness, and cried, 

" A cruel God, forsooth ! Itut nay, O nay, 

I will not think it of Him, that He meant 

To threaten these. O, when I look on them, 

How doth my soul admire." 

And one stood foi-th, 
The 3^oungest ; of his brethren named " the Rock," 
"Speak out," quoth he, "thou toothless, slavering 

thing. 
What is it? thinkest thou that such as we 
Should l)e afraid? What is this goodly doom ! 
And Satan laughed upon him. " Lo," said he, 
" Thou art not fully grown, and every one 
I look on standeth higher by the head. 
Yea, and the shoulders, than do other men ; 
Forsooth, thy servant thought not thou wouldst 

fear, 



V 



326 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Thou and thy fellows." Then with one accord, 
"Speak," cried they; and with mild, persuasive 

eyes. 
And flattering tongue, he spoke. 

" Ye mighty ones, 
It hath l)een known to you these many days 
How that for piety I am much famed. 
I am exceeding pious ; if 1 lie, 
As hath been whispered, it is but for sake 
Of God, and that ye should not think Him hard, 
For I am all for God. Now some have thought 
That He hath also (and it may be so 
Or yet may not be so) on me been hard ; 
Be not ye therefore wroth for my poor sake ; 
I am contented to have earned your weal. 
Though I must therefore suffer. 

' ' Now to-day 
One cometh, yea, an harmless man, a fool, 
Who boasts he hath a message from our God, 
And lest that you, for bravery of heart 
And stoutness, being angered with his prate. 
Should lift a hand, and kill him, I am here." 

Then spoke the Leader, "How now, snake? 

words 
Ring false. Why ever liest thou, snake, to us? 
Thou coward ! none of us will see thee harmed. 
I say thou liest. The laud is strewed with slain ; 
Myself have hewn down companies, and blood 
Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well ; 
And hast thou, driveller, panting sore for age. 
Come with a force to bid us spare one fool? " 

And Satan answered, " Nay you ! be not wroth : 
Yet true it is, and yet not all the truth. 
Your servant would have told the rest, if now 



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^ 



J 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



327 



(For fulness of your life being fretted sore 
At mine infirmities, which God in vain 
I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused 
My speech to stop." And he they called '-the Oak " 
Made answer, " 'Tis a good snake ; let him be. 
Why would ye fright the poor old craven beast? 
Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear. 
Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak. 
Speak, dragon, thou hast leave ; make stout thy 

heart. 
What ! hast thou lied to this great compan}^ ? 
It was, we know it was, for humbleness ; 
Thou wert not willing to offend with truth." 
"Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, "thus it was," 
And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned ; 
" O, can it be, compassionate as brave, 
And housed in cunning works themselves have 

reared. 
And served in gold, and warmed with minivere, 
And ruling nobly, that He, not content 
Unless alone He reigneth, looks to bend 
Or break them in, like slaves to cry to Him, 
' What is Thy will with us, O Master dear?' 
Or else to eat of death? 

" For my part, lords, 
I cannot think it : for my piety 
And reason, which I also share with you. 
Are my best lights, and ever counsel me, 
' Believe not aught against thy God ; believe. 
Since thou canst never reach to do Him wrong. 
That He will never stoop to do thee wrong. 
Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind?' 
Therefore, O majesties, it is my mind, 
Concerning him ye wot of, thus to think 
The message is not like what I have learned, 
B}' reason and experience, of the God. 



±± 



k 



328 



A STOKi' or DOOM. 



Therefore uo message 'tis. The man is mad." 
Thereat the Leader laughed for scorn. ''Hold, 

snake ; 
If God be just, there shall be reckoning days. 
We rather would He were a partial God, 
And, being strong. He sided with the strong. 
Turn now thy reason to the other side, 
And speak for that ; for as to justice, snake, 
We would have none of it." 

And Satan fawned : 
" INfy lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit ; 
Yet in my pious fashion I must talk : 
For say that God was wroth with man, and came 
And slew him, that sliould make an eiui)ty world. 
But not a bettor nation." 

This replied, 
"■ Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean 
A better nation ; maybe, He designs, 
If none will turn again, a punishment 
Upon an evil one." 

And Satan cried, 
" Alas ! my heart being full of love for men, 
I cannot choose ])ut think of God as like 
To me ; and yet my piety concludes, 
Sinc^ He will have your fear, that love alone 
Sufficeth not, and I admire, and say, 
' Give me, O friends, your love, and give to God 
Your fear.'" But they cried out in wrath and rage, 
" We are not strong that any we will fear. 
Nor specially a foe that means us ill." 

BOOK VII. 

And while he spoke there was a noise witliout ; 
The curtains of the door were flung aside. 



^^ STORY OF DOOM. 



329 



And somei with heavy feet bare in, and set 
A Htter 011 the floor. 

Tlie Master lay 
Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set ; 
And Japhet, in despairing weariness, 
Leaned it ])eside. lie marked tlie mighty ones, 
Silent for pride of heart, and in his place 
The jewelled dragon ; and the dragon laughed. 
And subtly peered at him, till Japhet shook 
Witli rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried. 
Hissing, "Thou brown-haired youth, come up to me, 
1 fain would have thee for my shrine afar. 
To serve among an host as beautiful 
As thou : draw near." It hissed, and Jajjliet felt 
Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear, 
" Father ! O help, the serpent draweth me !" 
And struggled and grew faint, as in tlie toils 
A netted bird. But still his father lay 
Unconscious, and the mighty did not speak, 
But half in fear and half in wonderment 
Beheld. And yet again the dragon laughed, 
And leered at him and hissed ; and Japhet strove 
Vainly to take away his spell-set eyes. 
And moved to go to him, till piercingly 
Crying out, " God ! forbid it, God in heaven ! " 
The dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyes 
As feigning sleep ; and, suddenly released. 
He fell back staggering ; and at noise of it. 
And clash of Japhet's weapons on the floor, 
And Japhet's voice crying out, "I loathe thee, snake ! 
I hate thee ! O, I hate thee ! " came again 
The senses of the shipwright ; and he, moved, 
And looking, as one 'mazed, distressfully 
Upon the mighty, said, " One called on God : 
AVhere is my God? If God have need of me. 
Let him come down and touch my lips with strength. 
Or dying I shall die." 



VT 




±±rr 



330 



A SrORY OF DOOM. 



It came to pass, 
While lie was speaking, that the curtains swayed : 
A rushing" wind did mo^ e tliroughout the place, 
And all the pillars shook, and on the head 
Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there played 
A somewhat as it were a light, upon 
His breast ; then fell a darkness, and men heard 
A whisper as of one that spake. With that. 
The daunted mighty ones kept silent watch 
Until the wind had ceased and darkness fled. 
When it grew light, there curled a cloud of smoke 
From many censers where the dragon lay. 
It hid him. He had called his ministrants^ 
And liid tliem veil him thus, that none might look ; 
Also the folk who came with Noah had fled. 

But Noah was seen, for he stood up erect. 
And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause. 
The Leader said, " My brethren, it were well 
(For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak." 
And they did reach toward the man their staves. 
And cry with loud accord, '•'• Hail, sorcerer, hail!" 

And he made answer, '' Hail ! I am a man 

That is a shipwright. I was born afar 

To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit, 

Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, 

I bring a message, — lay you it to heart ; 

For there is wrath in heaven : my God is wroth. 

' Prepare j-our houses, or I come,' saith He, 

* A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your hearts, 

* What have we done ? ' Your dogs may answer that. 
To make whom fiercer for the chase ye feed 

With captives whom ye slew not in the war. 

But saved alive, and living throw to them 

Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes 

Their firstborn ye do take and offer up 



W?r^ 



— f — :^ -^ 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



2>2>^ 



To this abhorred snake, while yet the milk 

Is in their innocent mouths, — your maiden babes 

Tender. Your slaves may answer that, — the gangs 

Whose eyes ye did put out to make them work 

By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes 

They work npon the wheel in chains) . Your friends 

Ma}' answer that, — (their bleached bones cry out), — 

For ye did wickedly, to eat their lands, 

Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace, 

The rivers, and they, choking in the night, 

Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave 

To tell of more, the time would be so long 

To do it, and your time, O mighty ones. 

Is short), — but rather say, ' We sinners know 

Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn 

While yet there may be respite, and repent. 

" 'Or else,' saith He that formed you, ' I swear. 

By all the silence of the time to come, 

By the solemnities of death, — yea, more, 

By Mine own power and love which ye have 

scorned, — 
That I will come. I will command the clouds, 
And raining they shall rain ; yea, I will stir 
With all my storms the ocean for your sake. 
And break for you the boundary of the deep. 

" ' Then shall the mighty mourn. 

" ' Should I forbear 
That have been patient? I will not forbear ! 
For yet,' saith He, ' the weak cry out ; for yet 
The little ones do languish ; and the slave 
Lifts up to Me his chain. I, therefore, I 
Will hear them. I by death will scatter you : 
Yea, and by death will draw them to M}' breast. 
And gather them to peace. 



332 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



" ' But yet,' saith He, 
' Repent, and turn you. Wherefore will ye die? ' 
" Turn then, O turn, v/hile yet the enemy 
Untamed of man fatefuUy moans afar ; 
For if ye will not turn, the doom is near. 
Then shall the crested wave make sport, and beat 
You mighty at your doors. Will ye be wroth? 
Will ye forbid it? Monsters of the deep 
Shall suckle in your palaces their young. 
And swim atween your hangings, all of them 
Costly with broidered work, and rare with gold 
And white and scarlet (there did ye oppress, — 
There did ye make you vile ;) but ye shall -lie 
Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage above, 
And urge the weltering wave. 

" ' Yet,' saith thy God, 
' Son, ay, to each of you He saith, 'O son, 
Made in My image, beautiful and strong, 
Why wilt thou die ? Thy Father loves thee well. 
Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways, 
O son ! and no more dare the wrath of love. 
Live for thy Father's sake that formed thee. 
Why wilt thou die? ' Here will I make an end." 

Now ever on his dai's the dragon lay. 
Feigning to sleep ; and all the mighty ones 
Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe, 
And some at whom the sorcerer they had named, — 
Some at their fellows, for the younger sort — 
As men the less acquaint with deeds of blood, 
And given to learning and the arts of peace 
(Their fathers having crushed rebellion out 
Before their time) — lent favorable ears. 
They said, " A man, or false or fanatic. 
May claim good audience if he fill our ears 
With what is strange : and we would hear aoain." 



ill' 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



533 



The Leader said, " Au audience hath been given. 
The man hath spoken, and his words are naught ; 
A feeble threatener, with a foolish threat, 
And it is not our manner that we sit 
Beyond the noonday ; " then they grandly rose, 
A stalwart crowd, and with their Leader moved 
To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms, 
And the noise of pipes, away. But some were left 
About the Master ; and the feigning snake 
Couched on his dais. 

Then one to Japhet said, — 
One called "the Cedar Tree," — "Dost thou, too, 

think 
To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned? " 
And Japhet said, " I think not, nor desire, 
Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear 
Allegiance to the God, and live." He cried. 
To one surnamed " the Pine," — -"Brother, behooves 
That deep we cut our names in yonder crag. 
Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask 
Our names, and he ma}' answer, ' Matters not, 
For my part I forget them.' " 

Japhet said, 
" They might do worse than that, they might deny 
That such as you have ever been." With that 
They answered, " No, thou dost not think it, no ! " 
And Japhet, being chafed, replied in heat, 
" And wherefore? if ye say of what is sworn, 
' He will not do it,' shall it be more hard 
For future men, if any talk on it, 
To say, ' He did not do it? ' " They replied, 
With laughter, " Lo you ! he is stout with us. 
And yet he cowered before the poor old snake. 
Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray you now 
To bear our might in mind, — do, sirrah, do ; 




334 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



And likewise tell your sons, ' '• The Cedar Tree " 
Was a good giant, for he struck me not, 
Though lie was young and full of sport, and though 
I taunted him.'" 

With that they also passed. 
But there remained who with the shipwright spoke, 
•' How wilt thou certify to ns thy truth?" 
And he related to them all his ways 
Fr(jm the beginning : of the Voice tliat called ; 
Moreover, how the ship of doom was built. 

And one made answer, " Shall the mighty God 

Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars ? 

No, thou mad preacher, no. If He, Eterne, 

Be ordering of His far infinitudes. 

And darkuess cloud a world, it is but chance, 

As if the shadow of His hand had fallen 

On one that He forgot, and troubled it." 

Then said the Master, " Yet, — wlio told thee so?" 

And from his dai's the feigning ser[)ent hissed : 
" Preacher, the light within, it was that shined. 
And told him so. The pious will have dread 
Him to declare such as ye rashly told. 
The course of God is one. It likes not us 
To think of Him as being acquaint with changes 
It were beneath Him. Nay, the finished earth 
Is left to her great masters. They must rule ; 
The}' do ; and I have set myself between, — 
A visible thing for worship, sith His face 
(For He is hard) He showeth not to men. 
Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man, 
To be interpreter, and teach mankind 
A pious lesson by my piety. 
He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires, — 
It were beneath Him." 



^-A- 



n: 



^\-7, 



llj 



A STORV OF DOOM. 



335 



And the Master said, 
" Thou liest. Tlioii wouklst lie away the world, 
If He whom thou hast dared to speak against 
Would suffer it." ''I may not chide with thee," 
It answered, " now ; but if there come such time 
As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign 
In all men's sight, shall my dominion then 
Reach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too 
Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head. 

Then quoth the Leader of the young men : " Sir, 
We scorn you not ; speak further ; yet our thought 
First answer. Not but by a miracle 
Can this thing be. The fashion of the world 
We heretofore have never known to change ; 
And will God change it now ? " 

He then replied : 
^' What is tliy thoiight? There is no miracle? 
There is a great one, which thou hast not read. 
And never shalt escape. Thyself, O man. 
Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou sayest, 
' I am one, and fashioned like the gracious world, 
Red clay is all my make, myself, my whole. 
And not iny habitation,' then thy sleep 
Shall give tliee wings to play among the rays 
O' the morning. If thy thought be, ' I am one, — 
A spirit among spirits, — and tlie world 
A dream my spirit dreameth of, m}- dream 
Being all,' the dominating mountains strong 
Shall not for that forbear to take thy breath, 
And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back, 
And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet 
Upon their awful crests. Ay, tliou thyself. 
Being in the world and of the world, thyself, 
Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the 
world. 



w 



336 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son, 
That which He is, and that which He hath made : 
Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself, — 
Thou art thy Father's MotACLE. 

"Behold 
He buildeth up the stars in companies ; 
He made for them a law. To man He said, 
' Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains? 
O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, 
"Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His wa^'s : 
But first thou must be loyal, — love, O man, 
Thy Father, — hearken when He pleads with thee, 
For there is something left of Him e'en now, — 
A witness for thy Father in thy soul. 
Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone. 

" Now, then, be still, and think not in th}' soul, 

' The rivers in their course forever run, 

And turn not from it. He is like to them 

Who made them.' Think the rather, ' With my 

foot 
I have turned the rivers from their ancient way 
To water grasses that were fading. What ! 
Is God my Father as the river wave, 
That yet descendeth, — like the lesser thing 
He made, and not like me, a living son. 
That changed the watercourse to suit his will?" 

" Man is the miracle in nature. God 

Is the One Miracle to man. Behold, 

' There is a God.' thou sayest. Thou sayest well : 

In that thou sayest all. To Be is more 

Of wonderful than, being, to have wrought, 

Or reigned, or rested. 

"■ Hold then there, content; 
Learn that to love is the one wav to know 



it 



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A STORY OF DOOM. 



337 



Or God or man : it is not love received 

That niaketli man to know the inner life 

Of them that love him ; his own love bestowed 

Shall do it. Love thy P'athcr, and no more 

His doings shall be .strange. Thou shalt not fret 

At any counsel, then, that He will send, — 

No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee 

Great reservations. Know, to Be is more 

Than to have acted ; yea, or, after rest 

And patience, to have risen and been wroth. 

Broken tlie sequence of an ordered earth, 

And troul)led nations." 

Then the dragon sighed. 
" Poor fanatic," quoth he, " thou speakest well. 
Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, 
Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, good sooth, 
My masters, let us not despise, but learn 
Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul. 
Let us go forth — (myself will also go 
To head you) — and do sacrifice ; for that, 
We know, is pleasing to the mighty God : 
But as for building many arks of wood, 
O majesties ! when He shall counsel you 
Himself, then build. What say you, shall it be 
An hundred oxen, — fat, well liking, white? 
An hundred? why, a thousand were not much 
To such as you." Then Noah lift up his arms 
To heaven, and cried, " Thou aged shape of sin, 
The Lord rebuke thee." 

BOOK VIII. 

Then one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought, 
" The Master cometh ! " and she went within 
To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shem 
Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field. 




— ^-^1 



^ 




338 



A STO/n' OF DOOM. 



And said, "Is it well, my brother?" He replied, 
" AVell ! and, I pray 3'ou, is it well at home? " 
But Shem made answer, " Can a house be well. 
If he that should eonnnand it bides afar? 
Yet well is thee, because a fair free maid 
Is found to wed thee ; and they bring her in 
This day at sundown. Therefore is much haste 
To cover thick with costly webs the floor, 
And pluck and cover thick the same with leaves 
Of all sweet herbs, — I warrant, yc shall hear 
No footfall where she treadeth ; and the seats 
Are ready, spread with robes ; the tables set 
With golden baskets, red pomegranates shred 
To fill them ; and the rubied censers smoke, 
Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon. 
And frankincense and cedar." 

Japhet said, 
" I will betroth her to me straight ; " and went 
(Yet labored he with sore disquietude) 
To gather grapes, and reap and bind the sheaf 
For his betrothal. And his brother spake, 
" AVhere is our father? doth he preach to-day?" 
And Japhet answered, '' Yea. He said to me, 
' Go forward ; 1 will follow when the folk 
By 3-onder mountain-hold I shall have warned.' " 

And Shem re[)lied, "How thinkest thou? — thine 

ears 
Have heard him oft." He answered, '• I do think 
These be the last days of this old fair world." 

Then he did tell him of the giant folk : 
How they, than he, were taller by the head ; 
How one must stride that will ascend the steps 
That lead to their wide halls ; and how they drave. 



^ 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



339 



With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north ; 
Aud how the talking dragon lied and fawned, 
They seated proudly on their ivory thrones. 
And scorned him : and of their peaked hoods, 
And garments wrought upon, each with the tale 
Of him that wore it, — all his manful deeds 
(Yea, and about their skirts were effigies 
Of kings that they had slain ; aud some, whose 

swords 
Man}' had pierced, wore vestures all of red, 
To signify much blood) : and of their pride 
He told, but of the vision in the tent 
He told him not. 

And when the}- reached the house, 
Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, 
"All hail, right fortunate ! Lo, I have found 
A maid. And now thou hast done well to reap 
The late ripe corn." So he went in with her, 
Aud she did talk with him right motherly : 
" It hath been full told me how ye loathed 
To wed thy father's slave ; yea, she herself. 
Did she not all declare to me?" 

He said, 
" Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart." 
" Y^ea," quoth his mother ; *•' she made clear to me 
How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow, 
' I will not take her ! ' Now, it was not I 
That wrought to have it so." And he replied, 
" 1 know it." Quoth the mother, "• It is well ; 
For that same cause is laughter in m}- heart." 
" But she is sweet of language," Japhet said. 
" Ay," quoth Niloiya, " aud th}' wife no less 
Whom thou shalt wed anon, — forsooth, anon, — 
It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt? " He said, 
" I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf 



'¥ 




^ 



A S'JVA'r OF J)()OJf. 



Frou' oft" his shoulder, and he said, " Behold, 

My lather ! " Then Niloiya turned herself, 

And lo ! the shii)\vright stood. "AH hail !" quoth 

she. 
And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth.; 
But wliik> she spake with him, sorely he sighed ; 
And she did hang about his ueek the robe 
C)f feasting, and she poured upon his hands 
Clear water, and anointed him, and set 
Before him bread. 

And .Iniihet said to him, 
'•' JNIy father, my beloved, wilt thou yet 
Be sad beeause of scorning? Kat, tliis ilav ; 
For as an angel in their eyes tiiou art 
Who stand before tlu'e." But he answered, '• Peaee ! 
Thy words are wide." 

And wlieu Niloiya heard. 
She said, " Is this a time for mirth of heart 
And wine? Behold, I thought to Aved my son, 
Even this Japhet; but is this a time. 
When sad is he to whom is my desire, 
And lying under sorrow as from God? " 

lie answered, " Yea, it is a time of times; 
liring in the maid. Niloiya said, " The maid 
That Hrst 1 spoke on, shall not Japhet wed ; 
It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me. 
But I have found another ; yea, good sooth, 
The d:imsel will not tarry, she will come 
With all her slaves by sundown." 

And she said, 
"Comfort thy heart, and eat: moreover, know 
How that tliy great work even to-day is done. 
Sir, thy great ship is finished, and the folk 
(For I, according to thy will, have paid 



LJ 



j£ 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



341 



All that was loft us to them for their wage) 
Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour of wheat. 
Honey and oil, — nuich victual ; yea, and fruits. 
Curtains and houseliold gear. And, sir, thej- say 
It is thy will to take it for thy hold, 
Our fastness and abode." He answered, "Yea, 
Else wherefore was it built? " Slie said, " Good sir, 
I pray you make us not the whole earth's scorn. 
And now, to-morrow in thy father's house 
Is a great feast, and weddings are toward ; 
Let be the ship, till after, for thy words 
Have ever been, ' If God shall send a flood, 
There will I dwell ;' I pray you therefore wait 
At least till He dotii send it." 

And he turned. 
And answered nothing. Now the sun was low 
While yet she spake ; and Japhet came to them 
In goodly raiment, and upon his arm 
The garment of betrothal. And with that 
A noise, and then brake in a woman-slave 
And Amarant. This, with folding of her hands, 
Did say full meekly, "If I do offend, 
Yet have not I been willing to offend ; 
For now this woman will not be denied 
Herself to tell her errand. 

And they sat. 
Then spoke the woman, "If I do offend, 
Tray you forgive the bond-slave, for her tongue 
Is for her mistress. ' Lo,' my mistress saith, 
' Put off thy bravery, bridegroom ; fold away, 
Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly robes 
Woven of man}- colors. We have heard 
Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil things 
He prophesied to us that were his friends ; 
Therefore, my answer : — God do so to me ; 
Yea, God do so to me, more also, more 




fel 



34-^ 



A S'JVA']- or J)OOM. 



Than he did threaten, if my damsel's foot 
Elver draw nigh thy door.' " 

And when she lieard, 
NiIoi3'a sat amazed, in grief of sonl. 
Bat Japliet came nnlo the slave, where low 
She bowed herself for fear. He said, "Depart; 
Sav to thy mistress, ' It is Avell." " With that 
She tnrned herself, and slie made haste to flee, 
Lest any, for those evil words she brought, 
"Would smite her. But the bondmaid of the house 
Lift ui) her liand and said. "If I offend. 
It was not of my heart : thy damsel knew 
Nauglit of this matter." And he heUl to her 
His hand and touelied her. and said, '• Amarant I " 
And wiien she looked upon him, slie did take 
And spread before her faee her radiant loi'ks, 
Trembling. And Japhet said, •• Lift up thy face, 

tairest of the daughters, thy fair face ; 

For, lo ! the bridegroom standeth with tlie robe 
Of thy betrotlial ! " — and he took her locks 
In his two hands to part them from her brow. 
And laid them on her shoulders ; and lie said, 
" Sweet are the blushes of thy face," and put 
The robe upon her, liaving said, " Behold, 

1 liave repented me ; and oft by niglit. 

\\\ the waste wilderness, while all tilings slept, 
1 thought upon thy words, for they were sweet. 
'* For this I make thee free. And now^ thyself 
Art loveliest in mine eyes ; I look, and lo ! 
Thou art of beauty more than any thought 
I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe. 
Wrought on with imagery of fruitful bough. 
And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes. 
Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair." 
So, when she held her peace, he brought her nigh 
To hear the speech of w^edlock ; ay, he took 



^ 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



343 



The goldeu cup of wine to drink with her, 
And laid the slieaf upon her arms. He said, 
" Lilve as iny fatliers in the older daj'S 
Led home the daughters whom they chose, do I ; 
Like as they said, ' Mine lionor have I set 
Upon thy head I ' do I. Eat of my bread, 
Rule in my house, be mistress of my slaves, 
And mother of my children." 

And he brought 
The damsel to his father, saying, " Behold 
My vv^ife ! I have betrothed her to myself ; 
I pray you, kiss her." And the Master did : 
He said, " Be mother of a multitude, 
And let them to their father even so 
Be found as he is found to me." 

With that 
She answered, " Let this woman, sir, find grace 
And favor in your sight." 

And Japhet said, 
" Sweet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose 
And brought me first. I leave her in thy hand ; 
Have care on her, till I shall come again 
And ask her of thee." So they went apart, 
He and his father, to the marriage feast. 

UOOK IX. 

TiiK pra3er of Noah. The man went forth Ijy night 

And listened ; and the earth was dark and still, 

And he was driven of his great distress 

Into the forest ; Init the birds of night 

Sang sweetly ; and he fell upon his face. 

And cried, " God, God ! Thy billows and Thy waves 

Have swallowed up my soul. 



Jl 



344 



A .VZ'CM']' O/-^ DOOM. 



" Where is 1113' God? 
For 1 h.ive somowliat yet to plead with Thee ; 
For 1 liave walked the strunds of Thy great deep, 
Heard the dull thunder of its rage afar, 
And its dread moaning. 0, the field is sweet, — 
Spare it. The delicate woods make white their trees 
With blossom, — spare them. Life is sweet ; behold 
There is much cattle, and the wild and tame. 
Father, do feed in quiet, — spare them. 

"C;od! 
A¥here is my (iod? The long wave dotJi not rear 
Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up. 
And like a cliief in battle fall, — not yet. 
The lightnings pour not down, from ragged holes 
In heaven, the torment of their forked tongues. 
And, like fell serpents, dart and sting, — not yet. 
The winds awake not, with their awful wings 
To winnow, even as chaff, from out their track, 
All that withstandeth, and bring down the pride 
Of all things strong and all things high, — 

^' Not yet. 
O, let it not be yet. AVhere is my God? 
How am I saved, if I and mine be saved 
Alone ? 1 am not saved, for I have loved 
My country and my kin. Must I, Thy thrall, 
Over their lands be lord wdien they are gone? 
I would not: spare them, JNIighty. Spare Thyself. 
For Thou dost love them greatly, — and if not . . ." 

Another praying unreniote, a Voice 
Calm as the solitude between wide stars. 

" Where is my God, who loveth this lost world, — 
Lost from its place and name, but won for thee? 
Where is my multitude, my multitude. 
That I shall gather ? " And white smoke went up 




A 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



345 



From inceuse that was burning, but there gleamed 

No light of lire, save dimly to reveal 

The whiteness rising, as the prayer of him 

That mourned. " My God, appear for me, appear ; 

Give me my multitude, for it is mine. 

The bitterness of dcatli 1 have not feared, 

To-morrow shall Thy courts, O God, be full. 

Then shall tlie captive from his bonds go free, 

Then shall the thrall find rest, that knew not rest 

From labor and from blows. The sorrowful — 

That said of joy, ' What is it?' and of songs, 

' We have not heard them ' — shall be glad and sing ; 

Then shall the little ones that knew not Thee, 

And such as heard not of Thee, see Thy face, 

And, seeing, dwell content." 

The prayer of Noah. 
He cried out in the darkness, "Hear, O God, 
Hear Him : hear tliis one ; through the gates of death, 
If hfe be all past praying for, O give 
To thy great multitude a way to peace ; 
Give them to Him. 

" But yet," said he, " O yet. 
If there be respite for the terrible. 
The proud, yea, such as scorn Thee, — and if not, 
Let not mine e^'es behold their fall." 

He cried, 
" Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great Judge, 
With a perfect heart ; I have but half believed, 
While in accustomed language I have warned ; 
And now there is no more to do, no place 
For my repentance, yea, no hour remains 
For doing of that work again. O lost. 
Lost world ! " And while he prayed, the dayliglit 
dawned. 




-MfT 



A STORV OF DOOM. 



And Noah went up into the ship, and sat 
Before tbe Lord. And all was still ; and now 
In that great quietness the sun came up, 
And there were marks across it, as it were 
Tlie shadow of a Hand upon the sun, — 
Three fingers dark and dread, and afterward 
There rose a white thick mist, that peacefully 
Folded the fair earth in her funeral shroud, — 
The earth that gave no token, save that now 
There fell a little trembling under foot. 

And Noah went down, and took and hid his face 
Behind his mantle, saying, '' I have made 
Great preparation, and it may be yet, 
Beside my house, whom I did charge to come 
This day to meet me, there may enter in 
Many that yesternight thought scorn of all 
My bidding." And because the fog was thick. 
He said, ^'Forbid it. Heaven, if such there be, 
That they should miss the way." And even then 
There was a noise of weeping and lament ; 
The words of them that were affrighted, yea, 
And cried for grief of heart. There came to him 
The mother and her children, and they cried, 
* ' Speak, father, what is this ? What hast thou done ? " 
And when he lifted up his face, he saw 
Japhet, his well-beloved, where he stood 
Apart ; and Amarant leaned upon his breast, 
And hid her face, for she was sore afraid ; 
And lo ! the robes of her betrothal gleamed 
White in the deadly gloom. 

And at his feet 
The wives of his two other sons did kneel. 
And wring their hands. 

One cried, " O, speak to us ; 
AYe are affrighted ; we have dreamed a dream, 



Jl 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



347 



Each to herself. For me, I saw in mine 
The grave old angels, like to shepherds, walk, 
Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked, 
And they did enter here." 

The other lay 
And moaned. " Alas ! O father, for my dream 
Was evil : lo, I heard when it was dark, 
I heard two wicked ones contend forme. 
One said, ' And wherefore should this Avoman live, 
When only for her children, and for her, 
[s woe and degradation ? ' Then he laughed. 
The other crying, ' Let alone, O Prince ; 
Hinder her not to live and tear much seed. 
Because I hate her.' " 

But he said, " Rise up, 
Daughters of Noah, for I have learned no words 
To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her, 
" Peace ! or I swear that for thy dream myself 
Will hate thee also." 

And Niloiya said, 
" My sons, if one of you will hear my words, 
Go now, look out, and tell me of the day, 
How fares it?" 

And the fateful darkness grew, 
But Shem went up to do his mother's will ; 
And all was one as though the frighted earth 
Quivered and fell a-trembling ; then they hid 
Their faces every one, till he returned. 
And spake not. " Nay," they cried, " what hast 

thou seen ? 
O, is it come to this ? " He answered them, 
" The door is shut." 



w 



.^. 



s 




348 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



CO NT 11 A ST 101) SONGS. 



SAII.I.NM; ItKYUND SKAS. 



{Old Style.) 

Methougiit the stars were blinking bright, 

And the old brig's suils unfurled ; 
1 said, "■ 1 will sail to my love this night 

At the other side of the world." 
1 stepped Jiboiird, — we sailed so fast, — 

The sun shot up from the bourn ; 
But a dove that perched upon the mast 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 
O fair dove ! O fond dove ! 

And dove with the white breast, 
Let me alone, the dream is my own, 
And my heart is full of rest. 

My true love fares on this great hill, 

Feeding his sheep for aye ; 
I looked in his hut, but all was still, 

INIy love was gone away. 
I went to gaze in the forest creek, 

And the dove mourned on apace ; 
No llame did flash, nor fair blue reek 
Rose up to show me his place. 
O last love ! O Hrst love ! 

My love with the true heart, , 
To think I have come to this your home, 
And yet — we are apart ! 

My love ! He stood at my right hand, 

His eyes were grave and sweet. 
Methought he said, "In this far land. 
Oh, is it thus we meet? 



s : — — s L \r 



^ 



REMONSTRANCE. 



349 



Ah, maid most dear, I am not here ; 

I have no pUice, — no part, — 
No dwelling more by sea or shore, 
But only in thy heart." 

O fair dove ! O fond dove ! 

Till night rose over the bourne. 
The (love on tlie mast, as we sailed fast, 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 



REMONSTRANCE. 

Daughters of Eve ! your mother did not well : 
She laid the apple in your father's hand, 

And we have read, O wonder ! what befell, — 
The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand ; 

He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne, — 

With her could die, but could not live alone. 

Daughters of Elve ! lie did not fall so low, 
Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell : 

For something better, than as gods to know, 
That husband in that home left off to dwell : 

For this, till love 1)e reckoned less than lore. 

Shall man be first and best for evermore. 

Daughters of Eve ! it was for your dear sake 
The world's first hero died an uncrowned king ; 

For God's great pity touched the grand mistake, 
And made his married love a sacred thing : 

For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true, 

Find the lost Eden in their love to you. 



^ 



a 



35" 



SihVc; j''OR Tin-: xicnr of 



SONO FOR THE NTGTTT OF CHRIST'S RESUR- 
RECT lOX. 

(.•l/( llunihlc Jinitdtioii.) 
" Aiul birds of oalm sit brooding on thi' charnii'd wave." 

It is the noon of night, 

And the world's Great Light 
Gone out, she widow-like doth carry her : 

The moon liatli veiled her face, 

Nor looks on that dread place 
Where He lieth dead in sealed sepulchre ; 

And heaven and liades, emptied, lend 
Their Hocking nuiltitndes to watch and wait the end. 

Tier above tier they rise. 

Their wings new line the skies, 
And shed out comforting light among the stars ; 

But they of the other place 

The heavenly signs deface. 
The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars; 

Yet high they sit in thron^d state, — 
It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate. 

And first and highest set, 
Where the black shades are met, 
The lord of night and hades leans him down ; 
His gleaming eyeballs show 
More awful than the glow 
Which hangeth by the points of his dread crown ; 
And at his feet, Avhere lightnings play. 
The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their ilay. 



W 



-- h^rr 



^ 



CHRIST'S RESLrRRECTION: 



351 



Lo ! one, with eyes all wide, 

As she were sight denied, 
Sits blindly feeling at licr distaff' old ; 

One, as distraught with wot;, 

Letting the spindle go, 
Her starry-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold ; 

And one right mournful hangs her head. 
Complaining, " Woe is me ! I may not eut the thread. 

"All men, of every birth. 
Yea, great ones of the earth, 
Kings and their eouncillors, have 1 drawn down ; 
But I am held of Thee, — 
Why dost Thou troul)le me, 
To bring nie up, dead King, tlmt keep'st Thy 
crown ? 
Yet for all courtiers hast l)ut ten 
Lowly, imlettered, Galilean lishermen. 

" Olympian heights are bare 

Of whom men worshipped there, 
Immortal feet their snows may print no more ; 

Their stately powers below 

Lie desolate, nor know 
This tliirty years Thessalian grove or shore ; 

I>ut I am elder far than they ; ■ — ■ 
Where is the sentence writ that I must i)ass away? 

" Art thou come up for this, 

Dark regent, awful Dis? 
And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending? 

And stirred the dens beneath 

To see us eat of death. 
With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending? 

Help ! powers of ill, see not us die ! " 
But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply. 



(S 



A 



M3^ 



352 



SOA^G FOI^ THE NIGHT OF 



Her sisters, fallen on sleep, 

Fade in the upper deep, 
And their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance ; 

Till her black veil she rends. 

And with her death-shriek bends 
Downward the terrors of her countenance ; 

Then, whelmed in night and no more seen, 
The}^ leave the world a doubt if ever such have been. 

And the winged armies twain 

Their awful watch maintain ; 
They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead ; 

Behold, from Antres wide. 

Green Atlas heave his side ; 
His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed, 

The swathing coif his front that cools, 
And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pools. 

Then like a heap of snow, 
Lying where grasses grow. 
See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep. 
Mild-mannered Athens, dight 
In dewy marbles white. 
Among her goddesses and gods asleep ; 
And, swaying on a purple sea. 
The many moored galleys clustering at her quay. 

Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade. 

Amid their camels laid. 
The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest ; 

Like to those old-world folk 

With whom two angels broke 
The bread of men at Abram's courteous 'quest, 

When, listening as they prophesied, 
His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied. 

Or from the Morians' land 
See worshipped Nilus bland. 



M 






CHRIST'S RESURRECTION. 



35. 



Taking the silver road he gave the world, 

To wet his ancient shrine 

With waters held divine, 
And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled, 

And list, ere darkness change to gray. 
Old minstrel-throated Memnon chanting in the day. 

Moreover, Indian glades. 

Where kneel the sun-swart maids, 
On Gunga's flood 'their votive flowers to throw. 

And launch i' the sultry night 

Their burnhig cressets bright. 
Most like a fleet of stars that southing go. 

Till on her bosom prosperously 
She floats them shining forth to sail the lulled sea. 

Nor bend the}' not their eyn 
Where the watch-fires shine, 
By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem : 
They mark, in goodly wise. 
The city of David rise. 
The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem ; 
And hear the 'scaped Kedron fret, 
And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet. 

But now the setting moon 

To curtained lauds must soon, 
In her obedient fashion, minister ; 

She first, as loath to go, 

Lets her last silver flow 
Upon her Master's sealed sepulchre ; 

And trees that in the garden spread, 
She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head, 

Then 'neath the rim goes down ; 
And night with darker frown 
Sinks on the fateful garden watched long ; 



I 



354 



SONG IVK THE NlCIir OF 



When some despairing eyes, 
Far in the murky skies, 
The unwislic'd waking by their gloom foretell ; 
And blackness up the welkin swings, 
And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings. 

Last, with amazed cry, 
Tlie hosts asunder fl}', 
Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue ; 
Whence straightway shooteth down, 
By the Great Fatlier thrown, 
A mighty angel, strong and dread to view ; 
And at his fall the rocks are rent, 
The waiting world dolli quake with mortal tremble- 
ment ; 

The regions far and near 
Quail with a pause of fear. 
More terrible than aught since time began ; 
Th3 winds, that dare not fleet, 
Drop at his awful feet, 
And in its bed wails the wide oceiin ; 
The flower of dawn forbears to blow, 
And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow. 

At stand, by that dread place. 
He lifts his radiant face, 
And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear ; 
Then, while the welkin quakes, 
And muttering thunder breaks, 
And liglitnings shoot and ominous meteors drear. 
And all the daunted eartu doth moan, 
He from the doors of death rolls back the sealed 
stone. — 

— Tn regal (|uiet deep, 

Lo, One new waked from sleep ! 



^ 




CHIUSTS RESURRECTION. 



355 



Behold, He staudeth in the rock-he wu door ! 

Thy children shall not die, — 

Peace, peace, thy Lord is by ! 
He liveth ! — they shall live forevermore. 

Peace ! lo. He lifts a priestly hand. 
And blesseth all the sons of men in every land. 

Then with great dread and wail, 

Fall down, like storms of hail, 
The legions of the lost in fearful wise. 

And they whose blissful race 

Peoples the better place 
Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes. 

And through the waxing saffron brede. 
Till they are lost in light, recede, and yet recede. 

vSo while the fields are dim, 
And the red sun his rim 
First heaves, in token of his reign benign, 
All stars the most admired, 
Into their blue retired. 
Lie hid, — the faded moon forgets to shine, — 
And, hurrying down the sphery way, 
Niglit flies and sweeps her shadow from the paths of 
day. 

But look ! the Saviour blest, 
Calm after solemn rest. 
Stands in the gai'den 'neath His olive-boughs ; 
The earliest smile of day 
Doth on His vesture play. 
And light the majesty of His still brows ; 
While angels hang with wings outspread, 
Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head. 



k 



356 SONG OF MARGARET. 

SON^G OF MARGARET. 

Ay, I saw her, we have met, — 

Married e3es, how sweet they be, — 
Are you happier, Margaret, 

Thau you might have beeu with me ? 
Silence ! make no more ado ! 

Did she think I should forget? 
Matters nothing, though I knew, 

Margaret, Margaret. 

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy. 

Told a certain thing to mine ; 
What they told me I put by, 

O, so careless of the sign. 
Such an easy thing to take. 

And I did not want it then ; 
Fool ! I wish my heart would break, 

Scorn is hard on hearts of men. 

Scorn of self is bitter work, — 

Each of us has felt it now : 
Bluest skies she counted mirk, 

Self -betrayed of eyes and brow ; 
As for me, I went my way. 

And a better man drew nigh, 
Fain to earn, with long essay. 

What the winner's hand threw by. 

Matters not in deserts old. 

What was born, and waxed, and yearned. 
Year to year its meaning told, 

I am come, — its deeps are learned, — 
Come, but there is naught to say, — 

Married eyes with mine have met, 
Silence ! 0, I had my day, 

Margaret, Margaret. 



so JVC OF THE GOING AWAY'. 



357 



SONG OF THE GOING AWAY. 

" Old man, upon the green hillside, 
With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er, 

How long in silence wilt thou bide 
At this low stone door? 

" I stoop : within 'tis dark and still ; 

But shadowy paths methinks there be, 
And lead they ffir into the hill? " 

"Traveller, come and see." 

" 'Tis dark, 'tis cold, and hung with gloom ; 

I care not now within to stay ; 
For thee and me is scarcely room, 

I will hence away." 

" Not so, not so, thou youthful guest, 
Thy foot shall issue forth no more : 

Behold the chamber of thy rest, 
And the closing door ! " 

" O, have I 'scaped the whistling ball, 
And striven on smoky fields of fight. 

And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall 
In the dangerous night ; 

" And borne my life unharmed still 

Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray, 

To yield it on a grassy hill 
At the noon of day ? " 

" Peace ! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep. 
Till some time., One my seal shall break. 

And deep shall answer unto deep, 
When He cryeth, ' Awake ! ' " 



A 



w 



fEk 



7^ 



558 



./ LILY AXD A LUTE. 



A LILY AND A Ll'TE. 

{Song of the uncommunicated Ideal.) 

I. 

I OPENED the eves of my souL 

And behold, 
A white I'iver-Hly : a Uly awake, and aware, — 
For she set her face upward, — aware how in scarlet 

and ii'old 
A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering 
air, 
Lay over with fold upon fold, 
"With fold upon fold. 

And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made 
her also asliamed, 

The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was 
fair ; 

And over the far-away mountains that no man hath 
viamed. 

And that no foot hath trod. 

Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it 
were, 

A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make 
them endure, 

"Withdrawn in snow-silence forever, who keep them- 
selves pure. 

And look up to God. 

Then I said, •• In rosy air. 
Cradled on thy reaches fair, 
"While the blushing early ray 
"Whitens into perfect day, 
Eiver-lily, sweetest known, 
Art thou set for me alone ? 



^ 



JI 



^ 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 



W 



359 



Nay, but I will bear thee far, 
Wliere you clustering steeples are, 
And the bells ring out o'erheud, 
And the stated prayers are said ; 
And the busy farmer's pace, 
Trading in the market-place ; 
And the country lasses sit 
B3' their butter, praising it ; 
And the latest news is told. 
While the fruit and cream are sold ; 
And the friendly gossips greet, 
Up and down the sunny street. 
For," I said, " I have not met. 
White one, any folk as yet 
Who would send no blessing up, 
Looking on a face like thine ; 
For thou art as Joseph's cup, 
And by thee might they divine. 

" Na}- ! but thou a spirit art ; 
Men sluill take thee in the mart 
For the ghost of their best thought, 
Raised at noon, and near them brought ; 
Or the prater they made last night. 
Set before them all in white." 

And I put out my rasli hand, 
For I thought to draw to laud 
The white lily. AVas it fit 
Such a ])lossom should expand, 
Fair enough for a world's wonder. 
And no mortal gather it? 
No. I strove, and it went under. 
And I drew, but it went down ; 
And the water-weeds' long tresses, 
And the overlapping cresses, 
Sullied its admired crown. 



jn; 



■ \-A \ ^^ 



w 



^ 



360 A LILY AND A LUTE. 

Then along the river strand, 
Trailing, wrecked, it eame to land, 
Of its beauty half despoiled. 
And its snowy pureness soiled : 
O ! I took it in my hand, — 
You will never see it now. 
White and golden as it grew : 
No, I cannot show it you, 
Nor the cheerful town endow 
With the freshness of its brow. 
If a royal painter, great 
With the colors dedicate 
To a dove's neck, a sea-bight 
And the flickerings over white 
IMountain summits far away, — 
One content to give his mind 
To the enrichment of mankind. 
And the laying up of light 
In men's houses, — on that day, 
Could have passed in kingly mood. 
Would he ever have endued 
Canvas with the peerless thing. 
In the grace that it did bring, 
And the light that o'er it flowed, 
AVitli the pureness tliat it showed. 
And the pureness that it meant? 
Could he skill to make it seen 
As he saw? For this, I ween, 
He were likewise impotent. 

II. 
I opened the doors of my heart. 

And behold, 
There was music within and a song. 
And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it 
lono-. 




fl 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 361 

I opened the doors of my heart. And behold, 
There was music that played itself out in aiolian 

notes ; 
Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals 
tolled, 
That murmurs and floats, 
And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold. 
And comes in all passion again and a tremblement 
soft, 
That ruaketh the listener full oft 
To whisper, "Ah! would I might hear it forever 
and aye, 
When I toil in the heat of the day, 
When I walk in the cold." 

I opened the door of my heart. And behold, 
There was music within, and a song. 
But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, 

thick and strong, 
Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting 
was drowned, 
I could hear it no more ; 
For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred 
on the shore. 
And trees in the dark all around 
Were shaken. It thundered. " Hark, hark ! there 

is thunder to-night ! 
The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes 

down with a will ; 
The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars 

are all dead ; — 
There is thunder ! it thunders ! and ladders of light 

Run up. There is thunder ! " I said, 
" Loud thunder! it thunders! and up in the dark 

overhead, 
A down-pouring cloud (there is thunder !), a down- 
l)ouring cloud 



-I— J 



362 



A LILY AA^D A LUTE. 



Hails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep 

in its bed, 
And cowers the earth held at bay ; and they mutter 

aloud, 
And pause with au ominous tremble, till, great in 

their rage, 
The heavens and earth come together, and meet with 

a crash ; 
And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down 
with a flash, 
And the story of life was all read, 
And the Giver had turned the last page. 

Nor their bar the pent water-floods lash. 
And the forest trees give out their language austere 
with great age ; 
And there fiieth o'er moor and o'er hill, 
And there heaveth at intervals wide, [subside, 

The long sob of nature's great passion, as loath to 
Until quiet drop down on the tide, 
And mad echo hath moaned herself still. 

Lo ! or ever I was 'ware. 

In the silence of the air, 
Through my heart's wide-open door, 
Music floated forth once more, 
Floated to the world's dark rim. 
And looked over with a hymn ; 
Then came home with flutings fine, 
And discoursed in tones divine 
Of a certain grief of mine ; 
And went downward and went in, 
Glimpses of my soul to win. 
And discovered such a deep 
That I could not choose but weep, 
For it lay, a land-locked sea. 
Fathomless and dim to me. 



^!— t- 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 



Z^Z 



O the song ! It came and went, 
Went and came. 

I have not learned 
Half the lore whereto it yearned, 
Half the magic that it meant. 
Water booming in a cave ; 
Or the swell of some long wave, 
Setting in from unrevealed 
Countries ; or a foreign tongue, 
Sweetly talked and deftly sung. 
While the meaning is half sealed ; 
May be like it. Yoli have heard 
Also ; — can you find a word 
For the naming of such song ? 
No ; a name would do it wrong. 
You have heard it in the night. 
In the dropping rain's despite, 
In the midnight darkness deep, 
When the children were asleep. 
And the wife — no, let that be ; 
She asleep ! She knows right well 
What the song to you and me. 
While we breathe, can never tell ; 
She hath heard its faultless flow, 
Where the roots of music grow. 

While I listened, like young birds, 
Hints were fluttering ; almost words, — 
Leaned and leaned, and nearer came ; — 
Everything had changed its name. 

Sorrow was a ship, I found, 

Wrecked with them that in her are. 

On an island richer far 

Than tlie port where they were bound. 

Fear was but the awful boom 

Of the old great bell of doom, 



3^4 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 



Tolling, far from earthly air, 
For all worlds to go to prayer. 
Pain, that to us mortal clings, 
But the i)ushing of our wings, 
Tluit we have no use for yet, 
And the uprooting of our feet 
From tlie soil where tliey are set, 
And the land we reckon sweet. 
Love in growth, the grand deceit 
"Whereby men the perfect greet ; 
Love in wane, the blessing sent 
To be (liowsoe'er it went) 
Nevermore with earth content. 
O. full sweet, and O, full high, 
Ran that music up the sky ; 
But I cannot sing it you. 
More than I can make you view, 
With my paintings labial, 
Sitting u}) in awful row. 
White old men majestieal, 
Mountains, in their gowns of snow. 
Ghosts of kings ; as my two eyes. 
Looking over speckled skies, 
See them now. About their knees. 
Half in haze, there stands at ease 
A great army of green hills. 
Some bar.^headed ; and, behold. 
Small green mosses creep on some. 
Those be mighty forests old ; 
And white avalanches come 
Through yon rents, wliere now distils 
Sheeny silver, i)ouring down 
To a tune of old renown. 
Cutting narrow pathwnys through 
Gentian beltc of airy blue. 
To a zone where starwort blows. 
And lonu' renches of the rose. 



4_rn=r 



^ 



M 



^ 



A LILY AND A LUTE. 



365 



So, that haze all left behind, 
Down the chestnut forests wind. 
Pass yon jagged spires, where yet 
Foot of inun was never set ; 
Past a castle yawning wide, 
With a great breach in its side, 
To a nest-like valley, where, 
Lilve a sparrow's egg in hue. 
Lie two lakes, and teach the true 
Color of the sea-nuiid's hair. 

What beside ? The world beside ! 
Drawing down and down to greet 
Cottage clusters at our feet, — 
Every scent of summer tide, — 
Flowery pastiu'es all aglow 
(Men and women mowing go 
Up and down them) ; also soft, 
Floating of the film aloft. 
Fluttering of the leaves alow. 
Is this told? It is not told. 
Where's the danger? where's the cold 
Slippery danger up the steep? 
Where yon shadow fallen asleep? 
Chirping bird and tumbling spray. 
Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, 
Peace, and echo, where are the}^? 

Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold ; 
Memory must their grace unfold 
Silently ; and that high song 
Of the heart, it doth belong 
To the hearers. Not a whit. 
Though a chief musician heard, 
Could he make a tune for it. 

Though a lute full deftly strung, 
And the sweetest bird e'er sung. 



366 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



Could have tried it, — O, the lute 
For tliat wondrous song were mute, 
And the bird would do her part. 
Falter, fail, and break her heart, — 
Break her heart, and furl her wings, 
On the unexpressive strings. 



GLADYS AND IIER ISLAND. 

{On the AdvantiKjCfi of the Poetical Temperament.^ 

AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A I>OUBTFUL MORAL. 

O HAPPY Gladys ! I rejoice with her. 
For Gladys saw the island. 

It was thus : 
They gave a day for pleasure in the school 
Where Gladys taught ; and all the other girls 
Were taken out to picnic in a wood. 
But it was said, "We think it were not well 
That little Gladys should acquire a taste 
For pleasure, going about, and needless change. 
It would not suit her station : discontent 
Might come of it ; and all her duties now 
She does so pleasantly, that we were best 
To keep her humble." So they said to her, 
" Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. 
Look, 3'ou are free ; you need not sit at work : 
No, you may take a long and pleasant walk 
Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach 
Among the visitors." 

Then Gladys blushed 
For joy, and thanked tlieni. What! a holiday, 
A whole one, for herself! How good, how kind I 
With that the marshalled carriages drove off; 



T=^ 



^EF' 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



367 



And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, 
Stole out beyoud the groups upon the beach — 
Tlie cliildreu with their wooden spades, the band 
That played for lovers, and tlie sunny stir 
Of cheerful life and leisure — to the rocks, 
For these she wanted most, and there was time 
To mark them ; how like ruined organs prone 
They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes, 
And let the great white-crested reckless wave 
Beat out their booming melody. 

The sea 
Was filled with light ; in clear blue caverns curled 
The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, 
As playing at some rough and dangerous game, 
While all the nearer waves rushed in to help. 
And all the farther heaved their heads to peep. 
And tossed the fishing-boats. Then Gladys laughed, 
And said, " O happy tide, to be so lost 
In sunshine, that one dare not look at it ; 
And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm ; 
And yet how lucky are the shadows, too, 
That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange, 
Tliat in remembrance though 1 lay tiiem up, 
They are forever, when I come to them, 
Better than I had thought. O, something yet 
J had forgotten. Oft I say, ' At least 
This picture is imprinted ; thus and thus, 
The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, 
Layer on layer.' And I look — up — up — 
High, higher up again, till far aloft 
They cut into their ether — brown, and clear. 
And perfect. And I, saying, ' This is mine. 
To keep,' retire ; but shortly come again. 
And they confound me with a glorious change. 
The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them ; 
They redden, and their edges drip with — what? 



"F 



368 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



I know not, but 'tis red. It leaves no stain, 
For the next morning they stand up like ghosts 
In a sea-shroud, and fifty thousand mews 
Sit there, in long white liles, and eliatter on, 
Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood. 

"■ There is the boulder where we always turn. 

O, I have longed to pass it; now I will. 

What would tiiev say ? for one must slip and spring ; 

' Young ladies ! Gladys ! I am shocked. My dears, 

Decorum, if you please : turn back at once. 

Gladys, we blame you most ; you should have looked 

Before you.' Then they sigh, — how kind they are ! — 

' AVhat will become of you, if all your life 

You look a long way off? — look anywhere, 

And everywhere, instead of at your feet. 

And where they carry j'ou ! ' Ah, well, I know 

It is a pity," Gladys said ; " but then 

We cannot all be wise : happy for me 

That other people are. 

" And yet I wish, — 
For sometimes very right and serious thoughts 
Come to me, — 1 do wish that they would come 
When they are wanted ! — when I teach the sums 
On rainy days, and when the practising 
I count to, and the din goes on and on. 
Still the same tune and still the same mistake. 
Then I am wise enough : sometimes I feel 
Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, 
' Now my reflections do me credit ! now 
I am a woman ! ' and I wish they knew 
How serious all my duties look to me, 
And how my heart hushed down and shaded lies, . 
Just like the sea, when low, convenient clouds 
Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. 
But does it last? Perhaps, that very day, 




GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



369 



The front door opens : out we walk in pairs ; 

And I am so delighted with this world, 

That suddenly has grown, being new washed. 

To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, 

And with a tender face shining through tears, 

Looks up into the sometime lowering sky. 

That has been angry, but is reconciled. 

And just forgiving her, that I, — that I, — 

O, I forget myself : what matters how ! 

And then I hear (but always kindly said) 

Some words that pain me so, — but just, but true : 

' For if 3-our place in this establishment 

Be but subordinate, and if your birth 

Be lowly, it the more behooves — Well, well, 

No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes ! 

I am always sorry then ; but now, — O, now, 

Here is a bight more beautiful than all." 

" And did they scold her, then, my pretty one? 
And did she want to be as wise as they, — 
To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind ? 
Ay, you may crow ; she did ! but no, no, no. 
The night-time will not let her ; all the stars 
Say nay to that ; the old sea laughs at her. 
Why, Gladys is a child ; she has not skill 
To shut herself within her own small cell. 
And build the door up, and to say, ' Poor me ! 
I am a prisoner ; ' then to take hewn stones, 
And, having built the windows up, to say, 
' O, it is darlv ! there is no sunshine here ; 
There never has been.' " 

Strange ! how very strange ! 
A woman passing Gladys with a babe, 
To whom she spoke these words, and only looked 
Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls. 
And never looked at Gladys, never once. 



^-t- 



JJ 



370 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



" A simple child," she added, and went by, 

' ' To want to change her greater for their less ; 

But Gladys shall not do it, 110, not she ; 

We love her — don't we? — far too well for that." 

Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise, 

" How could slie be so near, and I not know? 

And have I spoken out my thought aloud ? 

I must have done, forgetting. It is well 

She walks so fast, for I am hungry now. 

And here is water cantering down the cliff, 

And here a shell to catch it with, and here 

The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. 

Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare 

To be alone ! " So Gladys sat her down, 

Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank, 

Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, 

And tliought the earth was happy, and she too 

Was going round with it in happiness. 

That holiday. " What was it that she said?'' 

Quoth Gladys, cogitating ; '^ they were kind. 

The words that woman spoke. She does not know ! 

' Her greater for their less,' — it makes me laugh, — 

But yet," sighed Gladys, '^ though it must be good 

To look and to admire, one should not wish 

To steal their virtues, and to put them on, 

Like feathers from another wing ; beside. 

That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth, 

When all is said, would little suit with me. 

Who am not worthy. When our thouglits are born. 

Though they be good and humble, one should mind 

How they are reared, or some will go astray 

And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both 

Were only once removed from innocence. 

Why did I envy them? That was not good ; 

Yet it began with my humility." 



^^ 




i^^cr 



JJJ- 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



371 



But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, 

And right before her, on the horizon's edge, 

Behold, an island ! First, she looked away 

Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore. 

For siie was all amazed, believing not, 

And then she looked again, and there again 

Behold, an island I And the tide had turned, 

The milky sea had got a purple rim. 

And from the rim that mountain island rose. 

Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak 

The higher, and with fell and precipice. 

It ran down steeply to the water's brink ; 

But all the southern line was long and soft. 

Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought. 

Covered with forest or with sward. But, look ! 

The sun was on the island ; and he showed 

On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. 

Then Gladys held her breath ; she said, "Indeed, 

Indeed it is an island : how is this, 

I never saw it till this fortunate 

Rare holiday?" And while she strained her eyes, 

She thought that it began to fade ; but not 

To change as clouds do, only to withdraw 

And melt into its azure ; and at last, 

Little by little, from her hungry heart, 

That longed to draw things marvellous to itself. 

And yearned towards the riches and the great 

Abundance of the beauty God hath made, 

It passed awav. Tears started in her eyes. 

And when they di'opt, the mountain isle was gone ; 

The careless sea had quite forgotten it, 

And all was even as it had been before. 

And Gladys wept, but there was luxury 
In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, 
" O. what a little while ! I am afraid 
I shall forget that purple mountain isle, 



-4—5 



w 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



The lovel}' hollows atween her snow-clad peaks, 
The grace of her upheaval where she lav 
AVell up against the open. O, my heart, 
Now I remember how this holiday 
Will soon be done, and now my life goes on 
Not fed ; and only in tlie noonday walk 
Let to look silently at what it wants, 
Without the power to wait *r pause awhile. 
And understand and draw within itself 
The richness of the earth. A holidny ! 
How few I have ! I s[)end the silent time 
At work, while all their pupils are gone home. 
And feel myself remote. They shine apart ; 
They are great planets, I a little orb ; 
My little orl)it far within their own 
Turns, and approaches not. But yet, tlie more 
I am alone when those I teach return ; 
For they, as planets of some other sun, 
Not mine, have paths that can but meet niv ring- 
Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am ! 
I have not got laid up in this blank heart 
Any indulgent kisses given me 
Because I had been good, or, yet more sweet. 
Because my childhood was itself a good 
Attractive tiling for kisses, tender praise. 
And comforting. An orphan-school at best 
Is a cold mother in the winter time 
('Twas mostly winter wlien new orphans came), 
An un regardful mother in the spring. 

" Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went 
To gather cowslips. How we thought on it 
Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, 
To that one tree, the only one we saw 
From" April, ■ — if the cowslips were in bloom 
So early ; or, if not, from opening May 
Even to September. Thoi tliere came tlie feast 



^?3I* 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. ^^IZ 



At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained 
For a wliole year to us ; we could not tbinlv 
Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves 
Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained. 

" Ah, well, but I am here ; but I have seen 
The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time; 
I know the scent of bean-fields ; I have heard 
The satisfying murmur of the main." 

The woman ! she came round the rock again 

With her fair baby, and she sat her down 

By Gladys, murmuring, "Who forbade the grass 

To grow by visitations of the dew ? 

Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, 

' Thou shalt not wait for angel visitors 

To trouble thy still water ! ' Must we bide 

At home? The lore, beloved, shall fl}^ to us 

On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe 

Without? O, we shall draw to us the air 

That times and mystery feed on. This sliall lay 

Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world. 

And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, 

Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, 

Delivering of a tune to make her youth 

More beautiful than wheat when it is green. 

" What else ? — (O, none shall envy her !) The rain 

And the wild weather will be most her own. 

And talk with her o' nights ; and if the winds 

Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her 

In a mouthful of strange moans, — will bring from far, 

Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad. 

Masterful tramping of the bison herds. 

Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, 

In savage rifts of hair ; the crack and creak 

Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry 



s 



l-- 


f— ' 1 — 




=-— 


(. 


.' , 



374 



GLAVVS AND J/JiK JSLAND. 



Of the white bears, all in a dim bine world 
Mumbling their meals by twilight; or tlie rock 
And majesty of motion, when their heads 
Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, 
And liail their luits down on unvveeded fields. 
No holidays," quoth she ; '' drop, drop, (), drop. 
Thou tired skylarlv, and go up no more ; 
You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees. 
Nor give out your good smell. She will not look ; 
No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in. 
For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, 
" A most strange woman, and she talks of me." 
With tluit a girl ran up : ^'Mother," she said, 
" Come out of this brown light, I pray you now, 
It smells of fairies." (Jladys thereon thought, 
"The mother will not si)eak to me, perhaps 
The daughter may," and asked her courteously, 
''What do the fairies smell of ? " But the girl 
With i)eevish pout replied, " You know, you know. 
" Not I," said Gladys ; then she answered her, 
"Something like buttercups. But, mother, come. 
And whisper up a porpoise from the foam. 
Because 1 want to ride." 

Full slowly, then, 
Tlie molhei- rose, and ever kept her eyes 
Upon her little child. " You freakish maid," 
Said she, "now mark me, if I call yon one. 
You shall not scold nor make him take you far." 

" I only want — you know I only want," 
The girl replied — " to go and play awhile 
Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned 
And muttered low, " INIother, is this the girl 
Who saw the island? " But the mother frowned. 
"When may she go to it?" the daughter asked. 



% 



M, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 375 

And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind 
To hear the answer. " When she wills to go ; 
For yonder comes to shore the ferry-boat." 
Then Gladys turned to look, and even so 
It was ; a ferry-boat, and far away 
Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks 
Of her loved island. 

Then she raised her arms, 
And ran toward the boat, crying out, " O rare. 
The island ! fair befall the island ; let 
Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, 
And after her stepped in the freakish maid 
And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child ; 
And this one took the helm, and that let go 
The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up 
A flaky hill before, and left behind 
A sobbing, snake-like tail of creamy foam ; 
And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot 
Toward the island ; then, when Gladys looked, 
Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid 
Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft, 
And would be leaning down her head to mew 
At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap 
And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, 
She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own 
Rebuked her in good English, after cried, 
" Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." " I will not luff," 
Sobbed the fair mischief; " you are cross to me." 
"For shame!" the mother shrieked; "luff, luflT, 

my dear ; 
Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish 
With the curly tail to ride on." So she did. 
And presently, a dolphin bouncing up, 
She sprang upon his slippery back, — " Farewell," 
She laughed, was off", and all the sea grew calm. 



Z7~ 



V 



376 



GLADVS AND HER ISLAiYD. 



Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware 

In the smooth weather that this woman ttvlkeJ 

Like one in sleep, and mnrnuired certain thoughts 

Wliich seemed to be like echoes of hor c \vn. 

She nodded, "' Yes, tlie i>irl is going now 

To her own island. (Jladys [loor? Not she ! 

AVho tliinks so? Once I met a man in white, 

Wiio said to me, 'The tiling that might have been 

Is called, and questioned why it hatli not been ; 

And can it give good reason, it is set 

Beside tlie actual, and reckoned in 

To till the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so 

The possible stands by us ever fresh. 

Fairer tlian auglit which any life hath owned. 

And makes divine amends. Now tliis was set 

Apart from kin, and not ordained a liome ; 

An ecpud ; — and not suffered to fence in 

A little plot of earthly good, and say, 

'Tis mine ; but in bereavement of the part, 

O, yet to taste the whole, — to understand 

The grandeur of the story, not to feel 

Satiate with good possessed, l)ut evermore 

A healthful hunger for the great idea. 

The beauty and the blessedness of life. 

" Lo, now, the shadow ! " ([uoth she, breaking off, 

" We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, 

And, O, the mountain witli the purple peaks 

Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out. 

And they were in it : and slie saw the snow, 

And under that the rocks, and under that 

The pines, and then the pasturage ; and saw 

Numerous dips, and undulations rare. 

Running down seaward, all astir witli lithe 

Long canes, and lofty featliers ; for the i>alms 

And spice trees of the south, nay. every growth. 

Meets in that island. 



fh; 



llJ 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



2>n 



So that woman ran 
The l)oat ashore, and Ghulvs set her foot 
Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose ; 
Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, 
''- It all belongs to Gladys ; " and she ran 
And hid herself among the nearest trees 
And panted, shedding tears. 

So she looked round, 
And saw that she was in a banyan grove. 
Full of wild peacocks, — pecking on the grass, 
A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, 
Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high 
They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree 
Cumbered with creepers let the siuishine through, 
But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured 
From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped 
Lower on azure stars. The air was still, 
As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, 
And Gladys was the only thing that moved, 
Excepting, — no, they were not birds, — what then ? 
Glorified rainbows with a living soul? 
While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, 
Not otherwhere, but they were present yet 
In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit 
That lay about removing, — purple grapes, 
That clustered in the path, clearing aside. 
Through a small spot of light would pass and go, 
The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes 
Of somewhat that made rustliugs where it went ; 
But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, 
Behold them ! they had wings, and they would pass 
One after other with the sheeny fans, 
Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen. 
Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows. 
Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed 
With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these 




378 



GLADYS AND JllCR JSLAND. 



Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed 

Not to disturb the waiting quietness ; 

Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams ; 

Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek i)aws laid 

Across her little drowsy cubs ; nor swans. 

That, tloating, slept upon a glassy i)Ool ; 

Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, 

With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know, 

Was Eden. She was passing through the trees 

That made a ring about it, and she caught 

A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen 

Was nothing to them ; but words are not made 

To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow. 

And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. 

Why ? One was working in a valley near. 

And none might look that way. It was understood 

That He had nearly ended that His work ; 

For two shapes met, and one to other spake, 

Accosting him with, " Prince, what worketh He?" 

Who whispered, " Lo ! He f'ashioneth red clay." 

And all at once a little trembling stir 

Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke. 

And laid its head down, listening. It was known 

Then that tlie woik was done ; the new-made king 

Had risen, and set his feet u|)on his realm. 

And it acknowledged him. 

Ihit in hei" path 
Came some one tliat withstood lier, and he said, 
" AVhat dost tliou here?" Then she did turn and 

lice, 
Among tliose colored spirits, through the grove, 
Trembling for haste ; it was not well witli her 
Till she came forth of those tliick hauyan-trees, 
And set her feet upon tlie connnon grass, 
And felt the connnon wind. 






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GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



379 



Yet once beyond, 
She could not choose but cast ti backward glance. 
The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, 
And means of entering were not evident, — 
The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy ; 
She said, " Remoteness and a multitude 
Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, 
To-day I have been in Eden. O, it blooms 
In my own island." 

And she wandered on, 
Thinking, imtil she reached a place of palms, 
And all the earth was sandy where she walked,— 
Sandy and dry, — strewed with papyrus-leaves, 
Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids 
Of mummies (for perhaps it was the way 
That leads to dead old P^gyi)t) , and withal 
Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear 
The hot prone pillars, and the carven plintlis, — 
Stone lotos cui)s, with petals dipped in sand, 
And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat 
And smiled upon the ruin. O how still! 
Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear 
Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves 
Of palm-trees never rustled, and the soul 
Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. 
She was above her ankles in the sand. 
When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo ! 
It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, 
Which erst had carried to their pagan jirayers 
The brown old Pharaohs ; for the ruts led on 
To a great cliff, that either was a cliff 
Or some dread shrine in ruins, — jjartly reared 
In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn, 
Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps 
Of sand and stones on either side there lay ; 
And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, 



'W 



38o 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



As from a ghostly kennel, gods uublest, 
Dog-headed, and behind them winged things 
Like angels ; and this carven mnltitude 
Hedged in, to riglit and left, the rock}' road. 
At last, the cliff, — and in the cliff' a door 
Yawning: and she looked in, as down the throat 
Of some stnpendous giant, and beheld 
No floor, but wide, worn flights of steps, that led 
Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear 
That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight, 
Flight after flight, the worn, long stair go down, 
Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. 
So she did enter ; also she went down 
Till it was dark, and yet again went down. 
Till, gazing upward at that yawning door, 
It seemed no larger, in its height remote, 
Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, 
She donbted of the end, yet farther down 
A slender ray of lamplight fell away 
Along the stair, as from a door ajar : 
To this again she felt her way, and stepped 
Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light ; 
But fear fell on her, fear ; and she forbore 
P^ntrance, and listened. Ay ! 'twas even so, — 
A sigh ; the breathing as of one who slept 
And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile. 
And trembled ; then her doubting hand she laid 
Against the door, and pushed it ; but the light 
Waned, faded, sank ; and as she came within — 
Hark, hark ! A spirit was it, and asleep? 
A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung 
A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared 
A flickering speck of light, and disappeared ; 
Then dropi)ed along the floor its elfisii flakes. 
That fell on some one resting, in the gloom, — 
Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a sha[)e 



-: ^r . 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 381 

That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, 
Breathing and languid through prolonged repose. 

Was it a heifer? all the marble floor 
Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled. 
And straight their whiteness gnnv (confused and 
mixed. 

But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out, — 
The whiteness, — and asleep again ! but now 
It was a woman, robed, and with a face 
Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed 
Murmured, '' O terrible ! I am afi-aid 
To breathe among these intermittent lives. 
That fluctuate in mystic solitude. 
And change and fade. Lo ! where the goddess sits 
Dreaming on her dim throne ; a crescent moon 
She wears upon hei' forehead. Ah I her frown 
Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. 
What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast? 
A baby god with finger on his lips. 
Asleep, and dreaming of tieparted sway ? 
Thy son. Hush, hush ; he knoweth all the lore 
And sorcery of old Egypt ; but his mouth 
He shuts ; the secret shall be lost with him, 
He will not tell." 

The woman coming down ! 
" Child, what art thou doing here ? " the woman said ; 
" What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?" 
(^y, ay, ^oe see thee, hreatlmuj in tliy shroud, — 
Thy pretty shroud, all frilled andfurbelotved.) 
The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. 
I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier 
Of painted coffers fills it. AVhat if we. 
Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst, — 
Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, 



^-^ 



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382 



GLADYS AiYJJ HER ISLAND 



Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, 
And all the gear tliey took to bed with them ! 
Horrible ! let us hence. 

And Gladys said, 
" O, the}' are rough to mount, those stairs ; " but she 
Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight 
Shot like a meteor with her. " There," said she ; 
" The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, 
Down in unholy heathen gloom ; farewell." 
She pointed to a gateway, strong and high. 
Reared of hewn stones ; ])ut, look ! in lieu of gate, 
There was a glittering cobweb drawn across. 
And on the lintel there were writ these words : 
" Ho, every one that cometh, I divide 
What hath been from what might be, and the line 
Haugeth before thee as a spider's web ; 
Yet, wouldst thou enter, thou must break the line 
Or else forbear the hill." 

The maiden said, 
" So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed 
Among some oak-trees on the farther side. 
And waded through the bracken round their bolls. 
Until she saw the open, and drew on 
Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed 
"With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. 
Here she put up a creature, that ran on 
Before her, crying, ''Tint, tint, tint," and turned, 
Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes. 
Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, 
The wizard that wonned somewhere underground. 
With other talk enough to make one fear 
To walk in lonely places. After passed 
A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine ; 
He shook his head, " An' if I list to tell," 
Quoth he, " I know, but how it matters not ; " 



\: 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



3^Z 



Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap 

Of thunder, and a shape in Amice gra}-, 

But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, " Tint, 

Tint, tint." " There shall be wild work some day 

soon," 
Quoth he, " thou limb of darkness : he will come, 
Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp. 
And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie." 

Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, 

And got away, towards a grassy down. 

Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy 

To tend them. 'Twas the boy who wears that herb 

Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang 

So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on 

Nearer to listen. " O Content, Content, 

Give me," sang he, " thy tender company. 

I feed m}' flock among the myrtles ; all 

My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down 

Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, 

From the other side the river, where their harps 

Thou hast been helping them to tune. come. 

And pitch thy tent by mine ; let me behold 

Thv mouth, — that even in slumber talks of peace. 

Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance." 

And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, 

Till she had rested ; then did ask the boy, 

For it was afternoon, and she was fain 

To reach the shore, " Which is the path, I pi:iv. 

That leads one to the water ? " But he said, 

" Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, 

The path that leads one to the golden gate 

Across the river." So she wondered on ; 

And presently her feet grew cool, the grass 

Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. 

The air was full of voices, and the scent 



h 



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384 



GLADVS AXD HER ISLAND. 



Of mouutaiu blossom loaded all its wafts ; 
For sbe was on the slopes of a goodly mount. 
And reared iu such a sort that it looked dowu 
Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, 
And richest plains o' the islaud. It was set 
Midway between the snows majestical 
And a wide level, such as men would choose 
For growing wheat ; and some one said to her, 
••It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked 
Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear 
The calling of an unseen multitude 
To some upon the mountain, '■• Give us more ; " 
And others said, ••'We are tired of this old world: 
Make it look new again." Then there were some 
"Who answered lovingly — (the dead yet speak 
From that high mountain, as the living do) ; 
But others sang desponding, " We have kept 
The vision for a chosen few : we love 
Fit audience better than a rough huzza 
From the unreasoning crowd." 

Then words came up ; 
'• There was a time, you poets, was a time 
When all the poetry was ours, and made 
By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. 
TTe loved it then, we sang it in our streets. 
O, it grows obsolete I Be you as the}- : 
Our heroes die and drop away from us ; 
Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing. 
Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. 
Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, 
That many of us think scorn of honest trade. 
And take no pride in our own shops ; who care 
Only to quit a calling, will not make 
The calling what it might be : who despise 
Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work 
Dull, and des:rade them." 



-I— s 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



38 = 



Then did Gladys smile : 
"Heroes ! " quoth she ; yet, now I think on it, 
There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, 
Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks 
I see him burnishing of golden gear. 
Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, 
' London is thirsty ' — (then he weighs a chain) : 
' 'Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would give 
The worth of this, and manv such as this, 
To bring it water.' 

" Ay, and after him 
There came up Guy of London, lettered son 
O' the honest lighterman. I'll think on him, 
Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, 
After his shop was closed : a still, grave man. 
With melancholy eyes. ' While these are hale,' 
He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd 
Cheerl}' working ; where the river marge 
Is blocked with ships and boats ; and all the wharves 
Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise, — 
' While these are hale, 'tis well, 'tis very well. 
But, O good Lord,' saith he, ' when these are sick, — 
I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship 
Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. 
Ay, ay, mj- hearties ! many a man of you. 
Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away, 
And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, 
Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' 
AVell, we have heard the rest. 

"Ah, next I think 
Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart 
To dare and to endure. ' Robert,' saith he 
(The navigator Knox to his manful son), 
' I sit a captive from the ship detained ; 
This heathendrv doth let thee visit her. 



386 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Remember, son, if thou, alas ! shouldst fail 

To ransom thy poor father, they are free 

As yet, the mariners ; have wives at home, 

As I have ; ay, and liberty is sweet 

To all men. For the ship, she is not om's, 

Therefore, 'beseech thee, sou, la}- on the mate 

This my command, to leave me, and set sail. 

As for thyself — ' ' Good father,' saith the son ; 

' I will not, father, ask your blessing uow. 

Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate. 

We two shall meet again.' And so they did. 

The dusk}- men, peeling off cinnamon. 

And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree. 

Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship 

sailed, — 
The son returned to share his father's cell. 

" O, there are many such. AYould I had wit 
Their worth to sing I " With that, she turned her 

feet. 
'• I am tired now," said Gladys, '• of their talk 
Around this hill Parnassus. And, behold, 
A piteous sight, — au old, blind, graybeard king 
Led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved 
Of the crowd below the hill ; and when he called 
For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age. 
And plained on his unkind daughters, they were 

known 
To say, that if the best of gold and gear 
Could have bought him back his kiugdoui, and miide 

kind 
The hard hearts that had broken his ere while, 
They would have gladly paid it from their store, 
Many times over. AVhat is done is done, 
Xo help. The ruined majesty passed on. 
And, look you ! one who met her as she walked 
Showed her a mountain nj'mph lovely as light. 



M 
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GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



3-5 / 



Her name QEuone ; and she mourned and mourned, 
" O mother Ida," and she could not cease, 
No, nor be comforted. 

And after this. 
Soon th^re came by, arrayed in Norman cap 
And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, 
A\^ho said, " I pray you, have you chanced to meet 
One Gabriel?" and she sighed; but Gladys took 
And kissed her hand : she could not answer her. 
Because she guessed the end. 

With that it di'ew 
To evening ; and as Gladys wandered on 
In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, 
And she ran down to set her feet again 
On the sea-margin, which was covered thick 
With white shell-skeletons. The sk}^ was red 
As wine. The water played among bare ribs 
Of man}^ wi'ecks, that lay half-buried there 
In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto 
To ask her way, and one so innocent 
Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, 
She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue e^'es. 
For iu them beamed the untaught ecstacy 
Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, 
And love just born. 

Shs could not choose but name her shipwrecked 

prince. 
All blushing. She told Gladys many things 
That are not in the story, — things, in sooth, 
That Prospero her father knew. But now 
'Twas evening, and the sun dropped ; purple stripes 
In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay 
Out in the west. And lo ! the boat, and more, 
The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home 





588 



GLADYS AXD HER ISLAXD. 



She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm : 

"■ Peace, peace I " she said : •■be good : you shall not 

steer, 
For I am your liege lady." Then she sang 
The sweetest song she knew all the way home. 

So Gladys set her feet upon the sand ; 
While in the sunset glory died away 
The peaks of that blest island. 

'• Fare you well. 
My country, my own kingdom." then she said, 
•' Till I go visit you again, farewell." 

She looked toward their house with whom she 

dwelt. — 
The carriages were coming. Hastening up. 
She was in time to meet them at the door. 
And lead the sleepy little ones within ; 
And some wei'e cross and shivered, and her dames 
"Were weary and right hard to please : but she 
Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed 
With a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold. 
"' For. come what will." she said. " I had to-day, 
There is an island." 

THE MORAL. 

What is the moral? Let us think awhile. 
Taking the editorial We to help. 
It sounds respectable. 

The moral ; yes, 
We always read, when any fable ends, 
•• Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. 
AVhat do you think of this? •• Hence we may learu 
That dolphins swim about the coast of Wales, 






GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



389 



Aud Admiralty maps should now be drawn 
By teacher-girls, because their sight is keen, 
And they can spy out islands." Will that do? 
No, that is far too plain, — too evident. 

Perhaps a general moralizing vein — 

(We know we have a happy knack that way. 

We have observed, moreover, that young men 

A-re fond of good advice, and so are girls ; 

Especially of that meandering kind, 

Which, winding on so sweetly, treats of all 

They ought to be and do and think and wear, 

As one may sa^^, from creeds to comforters. 

Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, 

So soothing) . Good, a moralizing vein ; 

That is the thing; but how to manage it? 

" Hence we may learn" if we be so inclined, 

That life goes best with those who take it best ; 

That wit can spin from work a golden robe 

To queen it in ; that who can paint at will 

A private picture gallery, should not cry 

For shillings that will let him in to look 

At some by others painted. Furthermore, 

Hence we may learn, you poets, — {and ive count 

For 'poets all icho ever felt, that such 

They icere, and all lolio secretly have knoicn 

TJiat such they could he; ay, moreover, all 

Wlio wind the robes of ideality 

About the bareness of their lives, and hang 

Comforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn. 

Nightly betwixt them and the frosty icorld), 

Hence we ma}' learn, you poets, that of all 

We should be most content. The earth is given 

To us : we reign by virtue of a sense 

Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, 

The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. 

Humanitv is siven to us : we reign 



Jl 




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39^ 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



By virtue of a sense which lets us in 
To know its troubles ere they have been told, 
And take them home and lull them into rest 
With mournfuUest music. Time is given to us, — 
Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside 
Have seen it well, have walked this empty world 
When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills 
Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns.-' 

Have not we seen the tabernacle pitched, 
■ And peered between the linen curtains, blue, 
Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there. 
And, frighted, have not dared to look again? 
But, quaint antiquity ! beheld, we thought, 
A chest that might have held the manna pot. 
And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned 
Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet 
Of Caesar loomed and neaied ; then, afterwards. 
We saw fair Venice looking at herself 
In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth 
In all his bravery to the weddiug. 

This, 
However, counts for nothing to the grace 
We wot of in time future : — therefore add, 
And afterwards have done : - Hence tm may learn, 
That though it be a grand and comely thing 
To be unhappy — (and we think it is. 
Because so many grand and clever folk 
Have found out reasons for unhappiness. 
And talked about uncomfortable things, — 
Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowness, 
The hollowness o' the world, till we at last 
Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, 
Being so hollow, it should break some day, 
Andlet us in), —yet. since we are not grand, 
O, not at all, and as for cleverness. 




IJJ 



SOATGS WITH PRELUDES. 




391 



That may be or may not be, — it is well 
For us to be as happy as we can ! 

Agreed : and with a word to the noble sex, 
As thus : We pray you carry not your onus 
On the full-cock ; we pray you set your pride 
In its proper place, and never be ashamed 
Of any honest calling, — let us add, 
And end : For all the rest, hold up your heads 
And mind your English, 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



WEDLOCK. 

The sun was streaming in : I woke, and said, 

" Where is my wife, — that has been made my wife 

Only this year? " The casement stood ajar : 

I did but lift my head : The pear-tree dropped, 

The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from 

leaves 
And blossom, under heaveus of happy blue. 

My wife had wakened first, and had gone down 

Into the orchard. All the air was calm ; 

Audible humming filled it. At the roots 

Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps. 

Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills 

Were tossing down their silver messengers. 

And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds. 

Gave them good answer ; all things else were mute ; 

An idle world lay listening to their talk, 

They had it to themselves. 



ir 



^ 



k 



39^ 



^^a^'c;6• ir/TH preludes. 



What ails 1113' wife? 
1 know not if aught ails her ; though her step 
Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. 
She moves atween the almond- boughs, and bends 
One thick with bloom to look on it. '• O love ! 
A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, 
At unaware to think thy thoughts alone : 
How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heart 
The reason. Ah! thou art no more thine own. 
Mine, mine, O love ! Tears gather 'ueath my lids. — 
Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty. 
Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty. 
That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again. 
No ; all is right. But who can give, or bless, 
Or take a blessing, but there comes withal 
Some pain? " 

She walks beside the lily bed. 
And holds ai>art her gown ; she would not hurt 
The leaf-entblded buds, that have not looked 
Yet on the daylight. O, thy locks are brown. — 
Fairest of colors ! — and a darker brown 
The beautiful, dear, veiled, modest eyes. 
A bloom as of blush roses covers her [with her. 

Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes 
And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul ! 
To think that thou art mine ! 

My wife came iu, 
And moved into the chamber. As for me, 
I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears, 
And feigned to be asleep. 
I. 

The racing river leaped, and sang 
Full blithely iu the perfect weather. 

All round the mountain echoes rang. 
For blue and green were glad together. 



Ill: 



SOA'GS WITH PRELUDES. 



393 



This raiued out light from every part, 

And that with songs of joy was thrilUng ; 

But in the hollow of my heart, 

There ached a place that wanted filling. 

ni. 

Before the road and river meet. 

And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, 
I heard a sound of laughter sweet. 

And paused to like it, and to listen. 

IV. 

I heard the chanting waters flow, 

The cushat's note, the bee's low humming. 
Then turned the hedge, and did not know, — 

How could I ? — that mv time was coming. 



A girl upon the nighest stone, 

Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, 
So far the shallow flood had flown 

Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. 



She knew not any need of me. 
Yet me she waited all unweeting ; 

We thought not I had crossed the sea. 
And half the sphere to give her meeting. 



I waded out, her eyes I met, 

I wished the moments had been hours ; 
I took her in my arms, and set 

Her dainty feet among the flowers. 



JT7=r 



Jl 



^EF 



u 



394 



SOiVGS WITH PRELUDES. 



vin. 

Her fellow-maids iu copse and lane. 

Aj ! still, methiuks. I hear them calling ; 
The -.Tind's soft whisper iu the plain. 

The cushat's coo. the water's falling. 

IX. 

Bui: now it is a year ago. 

But now possession crowns endeavor ; 
I took her in my heart, to grow 

And fill the hollow place forever. 



REGRET. 

O THAT word Regket ! 

There have been nights and morns when we have 

sighed. 
'■ Let us alone. Regret I "We are content 
To thi'ow thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep 
For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes ; 
It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep. 
But plaineth on the bed that it is hard. 

We did amiss when we did wish it gone 
And over : sorrows humanize our race ; 
Tears are the showers that fertilize this world. 
And memory of things precious keepeth warm 
The heart that once did hold them. 

They are poor 
That have lost nothing ; they are poorer far 
Who. losing, have forgotten ; they most poor 
Of all. who lose and wish they ^hght forget. 
For life is one. and in its warp and woof 
There runs a thi-ead of gold that glitters fair. 




SOiVCS WITH PRELUDES. 395 

And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet 
Where there are sombre colors. It is true 
That we have wept. But O I this thread of gold. 
We would not have it tarnish ; let us turn 
Oft and look back upon the wondrous web, 
And when it shineth sometimes we shall know 
That memory is possession. 



When I remember something which I had, 
But which is gone, and I must do without, 

I sometimes wonder how I can be glad. 
Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout ; 

It makes me sigh to think on it, — but yet 

My days will not be better days, should I forgets 



When I remember something promised me, 
But which I never had, nor can have now. 

Because the promiser we no more see 

In countries that accord with mortal vow ; 

When I remember this, I mourn, — but yet 

Mv happier days are not the days when I forget 



LAMEXTATIOX. 

I READ upon that book. 
Which down the golden gulf doth let us look 
On the sweet days of pastoral majesty ; 
I read upon that book 
How. when the Shepherd Prince did flee 
(Red Esau's twin) . he desolate took 
The stone for a pillow : then he fell on sleep. 
And lo I there was a ladder. Lo ! there hung 




dtirr 



396 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



A ladder from the star-place, aud it climg 

To the earth : it tied her so to heaven ; and O ! 

There fluttered wings ; 
Then were ascending and descending things 

That stepped to him where he la}' low ; 
Then up the ladder would a-drifting go 
This feathered brood of heaven, nnd show 
Small as white flakes in winter that are blown 
Together, underneath the great white throne. 

When I had shut the book, I said : 
'■ Now, as for me, my dreams upon my bed 

Are not like Jacob's dream ; 
Yet I have got it in my life ; yes, I, 
And many more : it doth not us beseem, 

Therefore, to sigh. 
Is there not hung a ladder in our sk}'? 
Yea ; and, moreover, all the way up on high 
Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men. 

We have no dream ! What then ? 
Like winged wayfarers the height they scale 
(By Him that offers them they shall prevail) — • 
The prayers of men. 
But where is found a prater for me ; 

How should I pray? 
My heart is sick, and full of strife. 
I heard one whisper with departing breath, 
' Suffer us not, for any pains of death. 

To fall from Thee.' 
But O, the pains of life ! the pains of life ! 
There is no comfort now, and naught to win, 
But yet, — I will begin." 



"Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say, 

For that is wasted away ; 
And much of it was cankered ere it went- 



SOJVGS WITH PRELUDES. 



397 



" Preserve to me my health," I cannot say, 

For that, upon a day, 
Went after other deliohts to banishment. 



What can I pray ? " Give me forgetf ulness ? " 

No, I would still possess 
Past away smiles, though present fronts he stern. 
" Give me again my kindred?" Nay ; not so. 

Not idle prayers. We know 
They that have crossed the river cannot return. 



I do not pray, " Comfort me ! comfort me ! " 

For how should comfort be ? 
O — O that cooling mouth, — that little white head ! 
No ; but I pray, "If it be not too late, 

Open to me the gate. 
That I may find my babe when I am dead. 



" Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee 

When I was happy and free, 
Wn Iking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun ; 
But now I come and mourn ; O set my feet 

In the road to Thy blest seat. 
And for the rest, O God, Thy will be done." 



DOMINION. 

When found the rose delight in her fair hue? 
Color is nothing to this world ; 'tis I 
That see it. Farther, I discover soul, 
That trees are nothing to their fellow-trees ; 



'W 



^ 



398 



SOATGS WITH PRELUDES. 



It is but I that love their stateliness, 
And I that, comforting my heart, do sit, 
At noon beneath their shadow. I will step 
On the ledges of this world, for it is mine ; 
But the other w^orld ye wot of shall go too ; 
I will carry it in my bosom. O my world, 
That was not built with clay ! 

Consider it 
(This outer world we tread on) as a harp, — 
A gracious instrument on whose fair strings 
We learn those airs we shall be set to play 
When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings, 
Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind, 
And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet 
Lie grovelling ? More is won than e'er was lost : 
Inherit. Let thy day be to thy night 
A teller of good tidings. Let thy praise 
Go up as birds go up that, when they wake, 
Shake off the dew and soar. 

« 

So take Joy home. 
And make a place iu thy great heart for her, 
And give her time to grow, and cherish her ; 
Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, 
When thou art working in the furrows ; ay, 
Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. 
It is a comely fashion to be glad, — 
Joy is the grace we say to God. 

Art tired ? 
There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned ? 
There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head. 
The lovely world, and the over- world alike, 
Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede, 
" Thy Father loves thee." 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



399 



Yon moored mackerel fleet 

Hangs thick as a swarm of bees, 

Or a clustering village street 

Fouudatiouless built on the seas. 



The mariners ply their craft, 
Each set in his castle frail ; 

His care is all for the draught. 
And he dries the rain-beaten sail. 



For rain came down in the night 
And thunder muttered full oft, 

But now the azure is bright, 
And hawks are wheeling aloft. 



I take the land to my breast. 
In her coat with daisies fine ; 

For me are the hills in their best. 
And all that's made is mine. 



Sing high ! " Though the red sun dip. 

There yet is a day for me ; 
Nor youth I count for a ship 

That long ago foundered at sea. 

VI. 

*' Did the lost love die and depart? 

Many times since we have met ; 
For I hold the years in my heart, 

And all that was — is yet. 



n: 



400 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



" I grant to the king liis reign ; 

Let us yield him homage due ; 
But over the lands there are twain, 

O king, I must rule as you. 



" I grant to the wise his meed. 
But his yoke I will not brook. 

For God taught me to read, — 
He lent me the world for a book. 



FRIEXDSHIP. 

ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, 
WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND. 



SENT BY HIS 



Beautiful e3es, — and shall I see no more 

The living thought when it would leap from them. 

And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids? 

Here was a man familiar with fair heights 

That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears 

And troubles of our race deep inroads made. 

Yet life was sweet to him ; he kept his heart 

At home. Who saw his wife might well have 

thought, — 
" God loves this man. He chose a wife for him, — 
The true one I " O sweet eyes, that seem to live, 
I know so much of you, tell me the rest ! 
Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care 
For small, young children. Is a message here 
That you would fain have sent, but had not time ? 
If such there be, I promise, by long love 
And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes 
Of understanding, that I will not fail. 
No, nor delay to find it. 



SOA^GS WITH PRELUDES. 401 

O, my heart 
Will often paiu me as for some strange fault, — 
8ome grave defect in nature, — when I think 
How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, 
Moved to the music of the tideless main, 
While, with sore weeping, in an island home 
They laid that much-toved head beneath the sod, 
And I did not know. 



I stand on the bridge where last we stood 
When young leaves played at their best. 

The children called us from yonder wood, 
And rock-doves crooned on the nest. 

II. 
Ah, yet you call, — in your gladness call, — 

And I hear your pattering feet ; 
It does not matter, matter at all. 

You fatherless children sweet, — 

III. 
It does not matter at all to you. 

Young hearts that pleasure besets ; 
The father sleeps, but the world is new, 

The child of his love forgets. 



I too, it may be, before they drop. 
The leaves that flicker to-day. 

Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop, 
Shall pass from my place away : 

V. 

Ere you gray cygnet puts on her white, 
Or snow lies soft on the wold, 

Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light. 
And leave the storv untold. 



F 



11 



402 



JJVA'STA.VLE]' 



Shall I tell it there ? Ah, let that be, 
For the warm pulse beats so high ; 

To love to-day, and to breathe and see, 
To-morrow perhaps to die, — 






Leave it with God. But this I have known, 

That sorrow is over soon ; 
Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone, 

Forget bv full of the moon. 



But if all loved, as the few can love, 
This world would seldom be well ; 

And who need wish, if he dwells above, 
For a deep, a long death-knell. 



There are four or five, who. passing this place 
"While they live will name me yet ; 

And when I am gone will think on my face, 
And feel a kind of reo;ret. 



WIXSTAXLEY. 

THE APOLOGY. 

QuotJi the cedar to the reeds and rushes, 

" Water-grass, you Jcnoto not ivhat I do; 
Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes. 
And — / know not you." 




WINSTANLEY. 



403 



Quoth the reeds and rushes, " Wind! waken! 

Breathe, wind, arid set our ansvjer free. 
For ive have no voice, of you forsaken, 
For the cedar-tree." 

Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, 

" Wilderness of water, lost to view, 
Naught you are to me hut sounds of motion ; 
I am naught to you." 

Quoth the ocean, " Dawn! fairest, clearest, 

Touch me ivith thy golden fingers bland; 
For I have no smile till thou appearest 
For the lovely land." 

Quoth the hero, dying, ivhelmed in glory, 

'■'■Many blame me, feiv have understood; 
Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story, — 
Make its meaning good." 

Quoth the folk, " Sing, poet ! teach us, jyrove us, 

Surely we shall learn the meaning then; 
Wou7id us with a pain divine, O move us. 
For this man of men." 



Winstanley's deed, you kindly folk, 

With it I fill my lay, 
And a nobler man ne'er walked the world. 

Let his name be what it may. 

The good ship " Snowdrop" tarried long. 

Up at the vane looked he ; 
" Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, 

" She lieth becalmed at sea." 

The lovely ladies flocked within. 

And still would each one sa}', 
" Good mercer, be the ships come up?" 

But still he answered " Na}-." 




i: 



-t— ;- 



404 



WINSTANLEV. 



Then stepped two mariners dowu the street, 

With looks of grief and fear ; 
" Now, if Winstanley be your name, 

We bring you evil cheer ! 

"For the good ship *• Snowdrop' struck — she 
struck 

On the rock, — the Eddystone, 
And dowu she wcjit with threescore men, 

We two being left alone. 

" Down in the deep, with freight and crew, 

Past any help she lies, 
And never a bale has come to shore 

Of all thy merchandise." 

" For cloth o' gold and comel}' frieze," 

AVinstanley said, and sighed, 
' ' For velvet coif, or costly coat, 

They fathoms deep may bide. 

" O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, 

O mariners, bold and true. 
Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours aud you. 

"■ Many long days AVinstanley's breast 

Shall feel a weight within. 
For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared 

And trading count but sin. 

" To him no more it shall be joy 

To pace the cheerful town, 
Aud see the lovely ladies gay 

Step on in velvet gown." 



n 




■ She staggered back with her mortal blow, 
Then leaped at it again." — Page 405, 



WUVSTAATLEV. 



405 



The " Snowdrop" sauk at Lammas tide, 

All under the yeasty spray ; 
On Christmas Eve the brig " Content " 

Was also cast awa^'. 

He little thought o' New Year's night, 

So jolly as he sat then, 
While drank the toast and praised the roast 

The round-faced Aldermen, — 

While serving-lads ran to and fro, 

Pouring the ruby wine, 
And jellies trembled on the board, 

And towering pasties fine, — 

While loud huzzas ran up the roof 
Till the lamps did rock o'erhead. 

And holly boughs from rafters hung 
Dropped down their berries red, — 

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 

With every rising tide, 
How the wave washed in his sailor lads, 

And laid them side by side. 

There stepped a stranger to the board : 
" Now, stranger, who be ye?" 

He looked to right, he looked to left, 
And " Rest you merry," quoth he ; 

" For you did not see the brig go down, 

Or ever a storm had blown ; 
For you did not see the white wave rear 

At the rock, — the Eddystone. 

" She drave at the rock with sternsails set; 

Crash went the masts in twain ; 
She staggered back with her mortal blow, 

Then leaped at it again. 




4o6 I f 'INSTANLEY. 



" There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, 

The misty moon looked out ! 
And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, 

And the wreck was strewed about. 

" I saw her mainsail lash the sea 

As I clung to the rock alone ; 
Then she heeled over, and down she went, 

And sank like any stone. 

" She was a fair ship, but all's one ! 

For naught could bide the shock." 
" I will take horse," Winstanlc}' said, 

"■ And see this deadly rock ; 

" For never again shall bark o' mine 

Sail over the windy sea. 
Unless, by the blessing of God, for this 

Be found a remedy." 

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town 

All in the sleet and the snow, 
And he looked around on shore and sound 

As he stood on Plymouth Hoe, 

Till a pillar of spray rose far away, 

And shot up its stately head. 
Reared and fell over, and reared again : 

" 'Tis the rock ! the rock ! " he said. 

Straight to the Mayor he took his wa}-, 
" Good Master Mayor," quoth he, 

" I am a mercer of Loudon town, 
And owner of vessels three, — 

" But for your rock of dark renown, 

I had five to track the main." 
" You are one of many," the old Mayor said, 

" That on the rock complain. 



•J-f- 



WINSTANLEY. 407 



" An ill rock, mercer ! your words ring right, 
Well with my thoughts they chime. 

For my two sons to the world to come 
It sent before their time." 

" Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, 
And a score of shipwrights free. 

For I think to raise a lantern tower 
On this rock o' destiny." 

The old Mayor laughed, but sighed als6 ; 

" Ah, youth," quoth he, " is rash ; 
Sooner, youug man, thou'lt root it out 

From the sea tliat doth it lash. 

" Who sails too near its jagged teeth, 

He shall have evil lot ; 
For the calmest seas that tumble there 

Froth like a boiling pot. 

" And the heavier seas few look on nigh, 
But straight they lay him dead ; 

A seventy-gun-ship, sir ! — they'll shoot 
Higher than her mast-head. 

" O, beacons sighted in the dark, 

They are right welcome things, 
And pitchpots flaming on the shore 

Show fair as angel wings. 

" Hast gold in hand? then light the land, 

It 'longs to thee and me ; 
But let alone the deadly rock 

In God Almighty's sea." 

Yet said he, " Na}', — I must away, 

On the rock to set my feet ; 
My debts are paid, my will I made. 

Or ever I did thee greet. 



^ 



n; 



-t-? 



408 



IVIiVSTANLEV. 



"' If I must die, then let me die 
l>y the rock and not elsewhere ; 

If 1 niny live, O let me live 

To mount my lioiithouse stair." 

The oUl Mayor looked him in the face, 
And answered : •• Have thy way ; 

Thy heart is stout, as if round about 
It was braced witli ww iron stay : 

" Have thy will, mereer ! choose thy men, 
Put off from the storm-rid shore ; 

God with thee be, or I shall see 
Thy face and theirs no n^ore." 

Heavily plunged the breaking wave. 

And foam tlew up the lea. 
Morning and even the drifted snow 

Fell into the dark gray sea. 

Wiustanley chose him meu and gear ; 

He said, *• My time I waste," 
For the seas ran seething up the shore, 

And the wrack drave on in haste. 

But twenty years he waited and more, 

Pacing the strand alone. 
Or ever he set his manly foot 

Ou the rock, — the Eddystone. 

Then he and the sea began their strife, 
And worked with power and might : 

"Whatever the man reared up by day 
The sea broke down by night. 

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam. 

He sailed to shore at flow ; 
And at his side, by that same tide, 

Came bar and beam als5. 



;iii 



WhYSTANLEY. 409 



'• Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, 

" Or tliou wilt rue the day." 
" Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, 

" But the rock will have its way. 

" For all his looks that are so stout, 

And his speeches brave and fair. 
He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, 

But he'll build no lighthouse there." 

In fine weather and foul weather 

The rock his arts did flout. 
Through the long days and the short days, 

Till all that year ran out. 

With fine weather and foul weather 

Another year came in ; 
" To take his wage," the workman said, 

"We almost count a sin." 

Now March was gone, came April in. 

And a sea-fog settled down, 
And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, 

He sailed from Plymouth town. 

With men and stores he put to sea, 

As he was wont to do ; 
They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint, — ■ 

A ghostly craft and crew. 

And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway. 

For a long eight days and more ; 
" God help our men." quoth the women then ; 

'• For they bide long from shore." 

They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread : 

" Where may our mariners be? " 
But the brooding fog lay soft as down 

Over the quiet sea. 



h 



ur 



^ 



M 



h 



410 



li'/iVSTANLEV. 



A Scottish schooner mixde the port, 

Tlie thirteenth day at e'en : 
" As 1 nni a man." the captain cried, 

'•A strange t>iglit I have seen : 

"' And a strange sonnd heard, my masters all. 

At sea, in the fog and the rain. 
Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low. 

Then loud, then low again. 

'' And a stately house one instant showed. 
Through a rift, on the vessel's lee ; 

"What manner of creatures may be those 
That build upon the sea?" 

Then sighed the folk, "The Lord be praised ! " 
And they Hocked to the shore amain ; 

All over the Iloe, that livelong night. 
Many stood out in the rain. 

It ceased, and the red sun reared his head. 

And the rolling fog did flee ; 
And, lo ! in the oiling faint and far 

Winstanley's house at sea ! 

In fair weather with mirth and cheer 

The stately tower uprose ; 
In foul weather, with hunger and cold, 

They were content to close ; 

Till up the stair Winstanley went. 

To fire the wick afar ; 
And Plymouth in the silent night 

Looked out, and saw her star. 

Winstanley set his foot ashore : 

Said he, '• My work is done ; 
I hold it strong to last as long 

As aught beneath the sun. 



-tfj 



W/NSTANLEY. 



411 



**• But if it fail, as fail it rnay, 

Borne down with ruin and rout, 
Another than I shall rear it high, 

And brace the girders stout. 

" A better than 1 shall rear it high. 

For now the way is plain, 
And though I were dead," Wiri.stanley said, 

" The light would shine again. 

'• Yet were I fain still to remain. 

Watch in rny tower to keep, 
And tend rny light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep ; 

" And if it stood, why, then, 'twere good. 

Amid their tremulous stirs, 
To count each stroke, when the mad waves Ijioke 

For cheers of mariners. 

" But if it fell, then this were well, 

That I should with it fall ; 
Since, for my part, I have built my heart 

In the courses of its wall. 

" Ay I I were fain, long to remain. 

Watch in my tower to keep. 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep." 

With that Winstanley went his way. 

And left the rock renowned. 
And summer and winter his pilot star 

Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 

But it fell out, fell out at last, 

That he would put to sea, 
To scan once more his lighthouse tower 

On the rock o' destinv. 



-ic_u 



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ur 



412 



WINSTANLEY. 



And the winds broke, and the storm broke, 

And wrecks came plunging in ; 
None in the town that night lay down 

Or sleep or rest to win. 

The great mad waves were rolling graves, 

And each flung up its dead ; 
The seething flow was white below, 

And black the sky o'erhead. 

And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn, 

Broke on the trembling town, 
And men looked south to the harbor mouth, 

The lighthouse tower was down, — 

Down in the deep where he doth sleep 

Who made it shine afar. 
And then in the night that drowned its light ; 

Set, with his pilot star. 



Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms 

At Westminster they shoiv ; 
The brave and the great lie there in state : 
Winstanley lieth low. 







T^E 



MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



fl 



THE 



MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

There are who give themselves to work for meu.- 
To raise the lost, to gather orphaned babes 
And teach them, pitying of their mean estate, 
To feel for misery, and to look on crime 
With ruth, till they forget that they themselves 
Are of the race, themselves among the crowd 
Under the sentence and outside the gate, 
And of the family and in the doom. 
Cold is the world ; the}^ feel how cold it is. 
And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life 
For some. They would that tliey could soften it ; 
And, in the doing of their work, they sigh 
As if it wastlieir choice and not their lot ; 
And, in the raisiug of their prayer to God, 
They crave His kindness for the world He made, 
Till they, at last, forget that He, not they. 
Is the true lover of man. 



Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low, — 
Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed 
Too many, that it erst had fed, behind, — 
There walked a curate once, at earlj- day. 

It was the summer-time ; but summer air 
Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark 
And crowded alley. — never reached the door 
Whereat he stopped, — the sordid, shattered door, 




]^ 



416 THE MOXITIOXS OF THE I'XSEEN. 



He paused, and, lookiug right and left, beheld 
Dirt and decay, the lowering- tenements 
That leaned toward eaeh other ; broken panes 
Bulging with rags, and grim with old neglect ; 
And reeking hills of formless refuse, heaped 
To tade and fester in a stagnant air. 
But he thought nothing of it : he had learned 
To take all wretchedness for granted, — he. 
Beared in a stainless home, and radiant yet 
"With the clear hues of healthful English youth, 
Had learned to kneel by beds fork>rn, and stoop 
Under foul Untels. He could touch, with hand 
Unshrinking, fevered fingers ; he could hear 
The language of the lost, in haunt and den, — 
80 dismal, that the coldest passer-by 
Must needs be sorry for them, and, albeit 
They cursed, would dare to speak no harder words 
Thau these, — •• God help them I " 

Ay ! a learned man 
The curate in all woes that plague mankind, — 
Too learned, for he was but young. His heart 
Had yearned till it was overstrained, and now 
He — plunged into a narrow slough unblest. 
Had struggled with its deadly waters, till 
His own head had gone under, and he took 
iSmall joy in work he could not look to aid 
Its cleansing. 

Yet. by one right tender tie. 
Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse and dull. 
Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls profane. 
His soul drew back from. He had worked for 

them. — 
Work without joy : but in his heart of hearts. 
He loved the little children ; and. whene'er 
He heard their prattle innocent, and heard 
Their tender voices lisping sacred words 




^ 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 417 

That he had taught thein, — in the cleanly calm 
(Jf decent school, b}' decent matron held, — 
Then would he say, " 1 shall have pleasure yet, 
In these." 

But now, when he pushed back that door, 
And mounted up a flight of ruined stairs. 
He said not that. He said, " Oh ! once I thought 
The little children would make briglit for me 
The crown tiiey wear who have won many souls 
For righteousness ; but oh, this evil place ! 
Hard lines it gives them, cold and dirt abhorred, — 
Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love, 
And I3I0WS instead of care. 

" And so they die, 
The little children that I love, — they die, — 
The}- turn their wistful faces to the wall. 
And slip away to God." 

With that, his hand 
He laid upon a latch and lifted it. 
Looked in full quietly, and entered straight. 

AVhat saw he there ? He saw a three-years child, 

That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw 

Swept up into a corner. O'er its brow 

The damps of death were gathering : all alone, 

Uncared for, save that b}' its side was set 

A cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceased 

To look on things at hand. He thought they gazed 

In wistful wonder, or some faint surmise 

Of coming cliange, — as though they saw the gate 

Of that fair land that seems to most of us 

Very far off. 

When he belield the look. 
He said, " I knew, I knew how tliis would be ! 
Another ! Ay, and but for drunken blows 



jTi; 



V 



1 



-h—j 



1^ 



41 S THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

And dull ibrgetfulness of infant need, 
This little one had lived." And thereupon 
The misery of it wrought upon him so, 
That, unaware, he wept. O ! tlien it was 
Tiiat, in the bending of his manly head, 
It came between the child and that whereon 
He gazed, and, when the curate glanced again, 
Those clying eyes, drawn back to earth once more; 
Looked up into his own, and smiled. 

Fie drew 
More near, and kneeled beside the small frail thing, 
Because the lips were moving ; and it raised 
Its baby hand, and stroked away its tears. 
And whispered, "Master! master! " and so died. 

Now, in that town there was an ancient church, 
A minister of old days which these had turned 
To parish uses : there the curate served. 
It stood within a quiet swarded Close, 
Sunny and still, and, though it was not far 
From those dark courts where poor humanit}^ 
Struggled and swarmed, it seemed to wear its own 
Still atmosphere about it, and to hold 
That old-world calm within its precincts pure 
And that grave rest which modern life foregoes. 

When the sad curate, rising from his i-^nees. 
Looked from the dead to heaven, — as, unaware 
Men do when they would track departed life, — 
He heard the deep tone of the minster-bell 
Sounding for service, and he turned away 
So heavy at heart, that, when he left behiiid 
That dismal habitation, and came out 
In the clear sunshine of the minster-yard. 
He never marked it. Up the aisle lie moved, 
AVith his own gloom about him ; then came forth, 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



419 



And read before the folk grand words and eului, - 
Words full of hope ; but into his dull heart 
Hope came not. As one talketh in a dream, 
And doth not mark tlie sense of his own words, 
He read ; and, as one walketh in a dream, 
He after walked toward the vestment-room, 
And never marked the way he went b}-, — no. 
Nor the gray verger that before him stood. 
The great church-keys depending from his hand, 
Ready to follow him out and lock the door. 

At length, aroused to present things, but not 
Content to break the sequence of liis thought. 
Nor ready for the working day that held 
Its busy course without, he said, " Good friend, 
Leave me the keys : I would remain awhile." 
And, when the verger gave, he moved witli him 
Toward the door distraught, then shut him out. 
And locked himself within the church alone. 
The minster-church was like a great l)rown cave, 
Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dim 
With glorious gloom ; but, as the curate turned. 
Suddenly shone the sun, — and roof and walls. 
Also the clustering shafts from end to end. 
Were thickly sown all over, as it were. 
With seedling rainbows. And it went and came 
And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up 
Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings 
And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim. 
And dropped upon the curate as he passed. 
And covered his white raiment and his hair. 

Then did look down upon him from their place, 
High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests. 
And grand old raonarchs in their flowered gowns 
And capes of miniver ; and therewithal 
(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun 



420 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Smote with his burning splendor all the pile, 
And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes, 
A sombre glory as of rusted gold. 
Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green, 
That made the floor a beauty and delight. 
Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough 
To have been wafted there the day they dropt 
On the flower-beds in heaven. 

The curate passed 
Adown the long south aisle, and did not think 
Upon this beauty, nor that he himself — 
Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair 
With all the majesty that noble work 
And stainless manners give — did add his part 
To make it fairer. 

In among the knights 
That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute 
And palm of many a saint, - — 'neath capitals 
Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve 
With earthly tools their ancient childlike dream 
Concerning heavenly fruit and living bowers. 
And glad full-throated birds that sing up there 
Among the branches of the tree of life, — 
Through all the ordered forest of the shafts. 
Shooting on high to enter into light, 
That swam aloft, — he took his silent way. 
And in the southern transept sat him down, 
Covered his face, and thought. 

He said, " No i)aiu. 
No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine, 
Doth stir within thee. Oh ! I would there did : 
Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost 
I know not what. I see the heavens as lead : 
Thev tend not whither. Ah ! the world is bared 



THE MONITJONS OF THE UNSEEN. 421 

Of her enchautraent now : she is but earth 

And water. And, though much hath passed away, 

There may be more to go. I may forget 

The 303' and fear that have been : there may live 

No more for me the fervency of hope 

Nor the arrest of wonder. 

" Once I said, 
' Content will wait on work, though work appear 
Unfruitful.' Now I say, ' Where is the good? 
What is the good ? ' A lamp when it is lit 
Must needs give light ; but I am like a man 
Holding his lamp in some deserted place 
Where no foot passeth. Must I trim my lamp, 
And ever painfully toil to keep it bright, 
When use for it is none ? I must ; I will. 
Though God withhold my wages, I must work, 
And watch the bringing of my work to naught, — 
Weed in the vineyard through the heat o' the day, 
And, overtasked, behold the weedy place 
Grow ranker yet in spite of me. 

"Oh! yet 
My meditated words are trodden down 
Like a little wayside grass. Castaway shells. 
Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging wave, 
Have "lo more force against it than have I 
Against the sweeping, weltering wave of life, 
That, lifting and dislodging me, drives on, 
And notes not mine endeavor." 

Afterward, 
He added more words like to these ; to wit, 
That it was hard to see the world so sad : 
He would that it were happier. It was hard 
To see the blameless overborne ; and hard 
To know that God, who loves the world, should yet 
Let it lie down in sorrow, when a smile 



42 2 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN 

From Him would make it laugh and sing, — a word 

From Him transform it to a heaven. He said, 

Moreover, " When will this be done? My life 

Hath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired ; 

And oh ! it may be that-, uncomforted 

By foolish hope of doing good and vain 

Conceit of being useful, I may live. 

And it may be my duty to go on 

AVorking for years and years, for years and years." 

But, while the words were tittered, in his heart 

There dawned a vague alarm. He was aware 

That somewhat touched him, and he lifted up 

His face. '^ I am alone," the curate said, — 

" I think I am alone. What is it, then? 

I am ashamed ! My raiment is not clean. 

My lips, — I am afraid they are not clean. 

M}' heart is darkened and unclean. Ah me, 

To be a man, and yet to tremble so ! 

Strange, strange ! " 

And there was sitting at his feet — 
He could not see it plainlj- — at his feet 
A very little child. And, while the blood 
Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it, 
Gazing, and, lo ! the loveliness from heaven 
Took clearer form and color. He beheld 
The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth, — 
The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss. 
And perfect in possession. So it spoke, 
' ' My master ! " but he answered not a word ; 
And it went on : "I had a name, a name. 
He knew my name ; but here they can forget." 
The curate answered : " Nay, I know thee well. 
I love thee. Wherefore art thou come? " it said, 
" They sent me ;" and he faltered, " Fold thy hand, 
O most dear little one ! for on it gleams 
A gem that is so brio;ht I cannot look 



IJJ 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 423 

Thereon." It said, " When 1 did leave this world. 
That was a tear. But that was long ago ; 
For I have lived among the happy folk, 
You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he, 
" Do they forget us, while beneath the palms 
They take tlieir infinite leisure?" And, with eyes 
That seemed to muse upon him, looking up 
In peace, the little child made answer, " Nay ; " 
And murmured, in the language that he loved, 
" How is it that his haii' is not j-et white ; 
For I and all the others have been long- 
Waiting for him to come." 

" And was it long?" 
The curate answered, pondering, "• Time being done, 
Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense, 
In our to-come, of infinite extension? " 
Then saith the child, '• In heaven we children talk 
Of the great matters, and our lips are wise ; 
But here I can but talk witli thee in words 
That here I knew." And therewithal, arisen. 
It said, "I pray yon take me in your arms." 
Then, being afraid but willing, so he did ; 
And partly drew about the radiant child. 
For better covering its dread purity, 
The foldings of his gown. And he beheld 
Its beauty, and the tremulous woven light 
That hung upon its hair ; withal, the robe, 
' Wliiter than fuller of this world can white,' 
That clothed its immortality. And so 
The trembling came again, and he was dumb, 
Repenting his uncleanness : and he lift 
His eyes, and all the holy place was full 
Of living things ; and some were faint and dim, 
As if they bore an intermittent life. 
Waxing and waning ; and they had no form. 
But drifted on like slowly trailed clouds, 



^" 



424 



THE MONITIOXS OF THE UNSEENS 



Or moving spots of darkness, with an eye 

Apiece. And some, in guise of evil birds, 

Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks. 

And some were men-like, but their heads hung down ; 

And he said, '* O my God ! let me find grace 

Not to behold their faces, for I know 

They must be wicked and right terrible." 

But while he prayed, lo I whispers ; and there moved 

Two shadows on the wall. He could not see 

The forms of them that cast.them ; he could see 

Only the shadows as of two that sat 

Upon the floor, where, clad in women's weeds, 

Tliey lisped together. And he shuddered much : 

There was a rustling near him, and he feared 

Lest they should touch him, and he feel their touch. 

'• It is not great." quoth one, "• the work achieved. 

We do, and we delight to do, our best : 

But that is little ; for, my dear." quoth she. 

'• This tower and town have been infested long 

With angels." — ''Ay," the other made reply, 

" I had a little evil one, of late. 

That I picked up as it was crawling out 

O' the pit, and took and cherished in my breast. 

It would divine for me, and oft would moan, 

• Prav thee, no churches.' and it spake of this. 

" But I was harried once, — thou kuow'st by whom, — > 

And fled in here ; and when he followed me, 

I crouching by this pillar, he let down 

His hand, — being all too proud to send his eyes 

In its wake, — and, plucking forth my tender imp. 

Flung it behind him. It went yelping forth ; 

And, as for me, I never saw it more. 

Much is against us, — very much : the times 

Are hard." She paused : her fellow took the word, 

Plaining on such as preach and them that plead. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



4^5 



" Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell," 
Quoth she, " and pluck them back that run thereto." 
Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him 
The utterance of his name. " There is no soul 
That I loathe more, and oftener curse. Woe's me, 
That cursing should be vain ! Ay, he will go 
Gather the sucking children, that are yet 
Too young for us, and watch and shelter them 
Till the strong Angels — pitiless and stern, 
But to them loving ever — sweep them in. 
By armsful, to the unapproachable fold. 

" We strew his path with gold : it will not lie. 
' Deal softly with him,' was the master's word. 
We brought him all delights : his angel came 
And stood between them and his eyes. They spend 
Much pains upon him, — keep him poor and low 
And unbeloved ; and thus he gives his mind 
To fill the fateful, the impregnable 
Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars. 

" Oh ! hard is serving against love, — the love 

Of the unspeakable ; for if we soil 

The souls. He openeth out a washing-place ; 

And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread, 

Then will He save by poverty, and gain 

By early giving up of blameless life ; 

And if we shed out gold. He even will save 

In spite of gold, — of twice refined gold." 

With that the curate set his daunted e3'es 
To look upon the shadows of the fiends. 
He was made sure they could not see the child 
That nestled in his arms ; he also knew 
They were unconscious that his moilal ears 
Had new intelligence, which gave their speech 
Possible entrance through his garb of clay. 



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lEF 



rt 



426 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

He was afraid, yet awful gladness reached 
His soul : the testimony of the lost 
I'pbraitled him ; but wliile he trembled yet, 
The heavenly child had lifted up its head 
And left his arms, and on the marble floor 
Stood beckoning. 

And, its touch withdrawn, the place 
Was silent, empty ; all that swarming tribe 
Of evil ones concealed behind the veil, 
And shut into their se[)arate world, were closed 
From his observance. He arose, and paced 
After the little child, — as half in fear 
That it would leave him, — till they reached a door ; 
And then said he, — but nuicli distraught he spoke, 
Laying his hand across the lock, — " This door 
Shuts in the stairs whereb}^ men mount the tower. 
AVouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven?" 
It answered, " I will mount them." Then said he, 
"And I will follow." — " So thou shalt do well," 
The radiant thing replied, and it went up, 
And he, amazed, went after ; for the stairs, 
Otherwise dark, were lightened by the rays 
Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven. 
And hair Avhereon had smiled the light of God. 

"With that, they, pacing on, came out at last 

Into a dim, weird place, — a chamber formed 

Betwixt the roofs : for yon shall know that all 

The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine. 

Was covered with the dust of ages, laid 

Thick with those chips of stone which they had left 

Who wrought it ; but a high-pitched roof was reared 

Above it, and the western gable pierced 

With three long narrow lights. Great tie-beams 

loomed 
Across, and many daws frequented there, 



^ 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 427 

The starling and the sparrow littered it 
With straw, and peeped from many a shadj- nook ; 
And there was lifting up of wings, and there 
Was hasty exit when the curate came. 
But sitting on a beam and moving not 
For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves 
Bowing their heads, and cooing ; and the child 
Put forth a hand to touch his own, but straight 
He, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth, 
A stirring fancy smote him, and he thought 
That language trembled on their innocent tongues, 
And floated forth in speech that man could hear. 
Then said the child, " Yet touch, my master dear." 
And he let down his hand, and touched again ; 
And so it was. " But if they had their way," 
One turtle cooed, " how should this world go on? " 

Then he looked well upon them as he stood 

Upright before them. They were feathered doves. 

And sitting close together ; and their eyes 

Were rounded with the rim tliat marks their kind. 

Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam, — 

No phantoms they ; and soon the fellow-dove 

Made answer, " Nay, they count themselves so wise. 

There is no task the}' shall be set to do 

But they will ask God why. What mean they so? 

The glorj' is not in the task, but in 

The doing it for Him. What should he think. 

Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be set 

Such noble work, and suffered to behold 

Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours? " 

Witli that the other leaned, as if attent : 

" I am not perfect, brother, in his thought." 

The mystic bird replied, "Brother, he saith, 

' But it is naught : the work is over-hard.' 

Whose fault is tliat? God sets not overwork. 



w 



428 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

He saith the world is sorrowful, and he 

Is therefore sorrowful. He eauuot set 

The crooked straiaht ; — but who demands of him, 

O brother, that he should? What! thinks he, then. 

His work is God's advantage, and his will 

More bent to aid the world than its dread Lord's ? 

Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair. 

Millions on millions, who could do right well 

What he must fail in ; and 'twas whispered me, 

That chiefly for himself the task is given, — 

His little daily task." With that he paused. 

Then said the other, preening its fair wing, 
'' Men have discovered all God's islands now, 
And given them names ; whereof they are as proud, 
And deem themselves as great, as if their hands 
Had made them. Strange is man, and strange his 

pride. 
Now, as for us, it matters not to learn 
What and from whence we be : How should we tell ? 
Our world is undiscovered in these skies. 
Our names not whispered. Yet, for us and ours, 
What joy it is. — permission to come down. 
Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God. 
To guide, bu ; to their goal the winged fowls. 
His lovely lower-fashioned lives to help 
To take their forms by legions, fly, and draw 
AVith us the sweet, obedient, flocking things 
That ever hear our message reverenth', [way. 

And follow us far. How should they know their 
Forsooth, alone ? Men say they fly alone ; 
Yet some have set on record, and averred. 
That they, among the flocks, had dulj' marked 
A leader." 

Then his fellow made reply : 
"■ Thev miojht divine the Maker's heart. Come forth. 



THE MONiriONS OF THE UNSEEN. 429 



Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide tlieir wings, 
For Him that loveth them." 

With that, the child 
Withdrew his hand, and all their speech was done. 
He moved toward them, but they fluttered forth 
And fled into the sunshine. 

"I would fain," 
Said he, "have heard some more. And wilt thou 

go ? " 
He added to the child, for this had turned. 
" A}^" quoth he, gently, " to the beggar's place ; 
For I would see the beggar in the porch." 

So the}' went down together to the door. 

Which, when the curate opened, lo ! without 

The beggar sat ; and he saluted him : 

"Good morrow, master." "Wherefore art thou 

here?" 
The curate asked : " it is not service time. 
And none will enter now to give thee alms." 
Then said the beggar, " I have hope at heart 
That I shall go to my poor house no more." 
' ' Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die ? " 
The curate said. With that the beggar laughed, 
And under his dim eyelids gathered tears. 
And he was all a-tremble with a strange 
And moving exaltation. "Ay," quoth he, 
And set his face toward high heaven : "I think 
The blessing that I wait on must be near." 
Then said the curate, " God be good to thee." 
And, straight, the little child put forth his hand. 
And touched him. " Master, master, hush ! 
You should not, master, speak so carelessly 
In this great presence." 





Jit 



w 



430 THE MOIVIT/ONS OF THE UNSEEA'. 

But the touch so wrought. 
That, lo I the dazzled curate staggered back, 
For dread etfulgence from the beggar's eyes 
Smote him. and from the crippled limbs shot forth 
Terrible lights, as pure long blades of fire. 
''Withdraw thy touch I withdraw thy touch I '" he 

cried, 
" Or else I shall be blinded." Then the child 
Stood back from him ; and he sat down apart. 
Recovering of his manhood : and he heard 
The beggar and the child discourse of things 
Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came 
Anew ; and, when the beggar looked on him. 
He said, '• If I otfend not, pray you tell 
"Who and what are you. — I behold a face 
Marred with old age, sickness, and poverty, — 
A cripple with a staff, who long hath sat 
Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch, 
For paiu and for the wind's inclemency. 
What are you?" Then the beggar made reply, 
" I was a delegate, a living power ; 
M3' work was bliss, for seeds were in my hand 
To plant a new-made world. O happy work I 
It grew and blossomed ; but my dwelling-place 
Was far remote from heaven. I have not seen ; 
I knew no wish to enter there. But, lo ! 
There went forth rumors, running out like ra3's. 
How some, that were of power like even to mine. 
Had made request to come and find a place 
Within its walls. And these were satisfied 
With promises, and sent to this far world 
To take the weeds of your mortality. 
And minister, and suffer grief and pain, 
And die like men. Then they were gathered in. 
They saw a face, and were accounted kin 
To Whom thou kuowest, for He is kin to men. 






THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 431 

•• Then did I wait ; and oft, at work, I saug, 

' To minister ! oh, joy, to minister ! ' 

And. it being known, a message came to me : 

' Whether is best, thon forest-planter wise, 

To minister to others, or that they 

Shonld minister to thee?' Tlien, on my face 

Low lying, I made answer : ' It is best, 

Most High, to minister ; ' and thus came back 

The answer, — ' Choose not for thyself the best : 

Go down, and, lo ! my poor shall minister. 

Out of their poverty, to thee ; shall learn 

Compassion by thy frailty ; and shall oft 

Turn back, when speeding home from work, to help 

Thee, weak and crippled, home. My little ones, 

Thou shalt importune for their slender mite. 

And pray, and move them that they give it up 

For love of Me.' " 

The curate answered him, 
" Art thou content, O great one from afar ! 
If I may ask, and not offend? " He said, 
" I am. Behold ! I stand not all alone, 
That 1 should think to do a perfect work. 
1 may not wish to give ; for I have heard 
'Tis best for me that I receive. For me, 
God is the only giver, and His gift 
Is one." With that the little child sighed out, 
" O master ! master ! I am out of heaven 
Since noonday, and I hear them calling me, 
If you be ready, great one, let us go : — 
Hark ! hark ! they call." 

Then did the beggar lift 
His face to heaven and utter forth a cry 
As of the pangs of death, and every tree 
Gloved as if shaken by a sudden wind, 
lie cried again, and there came forth a hand 




1. 



43 



2 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 



From some invisible form, which, being laid 
A little moment on the curate's eyes, 
It duzzlecl him with light that brake from it, 
So that he saw no more. 

" What shall 1 do?" 
The curate murmured, when he came agam 
To himself and looked about hun. '• This is strange ! 
My thoughts are all astray ; and 3'et. methinks, 
A weight is taken from my heart. Lo ! lo I 
There lieth at my feet, frail, white, and dead, 
The sometime beggar. He is happy now. 
There was a child ; but he is gone, and he 
Is also happy. I am glad to think 
I am not bound to make the wrong go right ; 
But only to discover, and to do, 
With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints." 

"With that, he did compose, with reverent care, 
Tlie dead ; continuing, '' I will trust in Him, 
That He cax hold His owx ; and I will take 
His will, above the work He sendeth me. 
To be my chief est good." 

Then went he forth, 
'• I shall die early." thinking : '' I am warned. 
By this fair vision, tliat I have not long 
To live." Yet he lived on to good old age ; — 
A}-, he lives yet, and he is worlving still. 



It may be there are many in like case ; 
They give themselves, and are in misery 
Because the gift is small, and doth not make 
The world by so much better as they fain 
AVould have it. 'Tis a fault ; but, as for us. 
Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a fault 
More kindly looked on by The Majesty 



^-A- 




In sloping fields on narrow plains. 

The sheep were feeding on their knees. 

As we went through the winding lanes, 

Strewed with red buds of alder trees. Page 433. 



A BIRTHDAY WALK. 



433 



Than our best virtues are. Why, what are we? 
What have we given, and what have we desired 
To give, the world? 

There must be something wrong. 
Look to it : let us mend our ways. Farewell. 



A BIRTHDAY WALK. 

(written KOll A friend's BIKTHDAY.) 



■ The days of our life are threescore years and ten. 



A 15IRTHDAY : — and now a day that rose 
With much of hope, with meaning rife — 

A thoughtful day from dawn to close : 
The middle day of human life. 

In sloping fields on narrow plains, 

The sheep were feeding on their knees, 

As we went through tlie winding lanes. 
Strewed with red buds of alder-trees. 

So warm the day — its influence lent 
To flagging thoughts a stronger wing ; 

So utterly was winter spent. 

So sudden was the birth of spring. 

Wild crocus flowers in copse and hedge — 
In sunlight, clustering thick below, 

Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge, 
Where sparkled yet a line of snow. 




HT} 



434 



A BIRTHDAY WALK. 



Ami crowded suowdrops faiutly luinsj; 

Their fair heads lower for the heat, 
AVhile in still air all branches tlung 

Their shadowy doubles at our feet. 

And through the hedge the sunbeams crept. 
Dropped through the maple and the birch; 

And lost iu airy distance slept 

On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. 

Then, lingering on the downward way, 

A little space we resting stood. 
To watch the golden haze that lay 

Adown that river by the wood. 

A distance vague, tlie bloom of sleep 
The constant sun had lent the scene, 

A veiling charm on dingles deep 

Lay soft those pastoral hills between. 

There are some days that die not ont. 

Nor alter by reflection's power, 
Whose converse calm, whose words devout. 

Forever rest, the spirit's dower. 

And they are days when drops a veil — 

A mist upon the distance past ; 
And while we say to peace — " All hail I " 

We hope that always it shall last. 

Times when the troubles of the heart 

Are hnshed — as winds were hushed that day 

And budding hopes begin to start. 

Like those green hedgerows on our way : 

When all within and all around 

Like hues on that sweet landscape blend. 
And Nature's hand has made to sound 

The heartsti'ings that her touch attend : 



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NOT IN VAIN / WAITJUJ. 



435 



Wli(;ii tlicro ar{3 i'a3'.s within, like those 

'I'iiat Htreamcd through iiiaijlo and through 
hiic.li, 

And rested in sucli calm repose 

On the broad tower of Tamworth Church, 



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ir 



NOT IX VAIX I WAIIKD. 

SiiK was but a cliiid, a cliild. 

And I a man grown ; 
Sweet she was, and fr(;sli, and wild, 

And, I thought, my own. 

What could I do? The long grass groweth. 
The long wave floweth with a murmur on : 
The why and the wherefore of it all who know- 
eth? 
Ere I tiiought to lose her she was grown — 
and gone.. 

This da\- or that day in warm spring weather. 

The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its 

tether. 
" But if the world wound liiec^," I said, " come back 

to m(;, 
Down in the dell wisliiug, — wishing, wishing for 

thee." 

The dews hang on the white may, 

Like a ghost it stands, 
All in the dusk before day 
That folds the dim lands : 
Dark fell the skies when once belated. 

Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun ; 
But wake, heart, and sing, for not in vain I waited. 
O clear, O solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won ! 



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436 A GLEANING SONG. 

Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and clover, 
Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over ; 
Shine to-da}', sunbeams, and make all fair to see : 
Down the dell she's coming — coming, coming with 
me. 



A GLEANING SONG. 

" Whither away, thou little careless rover? 

(Kind Roger's true) 
Whither away, across yon bents and clover, 
Wet, wet with dew? " 
" Roger here, Roger there — 

Roger — O, he sighed, 
Yet let me glean among the wheat, 
Nor sit kind Roger's bride." 

" What wilt thou do when all the gleaning's ended, 

What wilt thou do ? 
The cold will come, and fog and frost-work blended 
(Kind Roger's true)." 
" Sleet and rain, cloud and storm. 

When they cease to frown, 
I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet, 
And cry them up the town." * 

" What if at last thy careless heart awaking 

This day thou rue ? " 
" I'll cry my flowers, and think for all its breaking, 
Kind Roger's true ; 
Roger here, Roger there, 
O, my true love sighed. 
Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my feet 
And rest kind Roster's bride." 




FANCY. 



WITH A DIAMOND. 



437 



While Time a grim old liou gnawing la}', 
And mumbled with its teeth yon regal tomb, 

Like some immortal tear undimmed for aje, 

This gem was dropped among the dust of doom. 

Dropped, haply, by a sad forgotten queen, 

A tear to outlast name, and fame, and tongue : 

Her other tears, and ours, all tears terrene. 
For great new griefs to be hereafter sung. 

Take it, — a goddess might have wept such tears. 
Or Dame Electra changed into a star, 

That waxed so dim because her children's years 
In leaguered Troy were bitter through long war. 

Not till the end to end to grow dull or waste, — 
Ah, what a little while the light we share ! 

Hand after hand shall yet with this be graced, 
Signing the Will that leaves it to an heir. 



FANCY 



Fancy, if thou flyeat, come back anon, 

Th}- fluttering wings are soft as love's first word, 
And fragrant as the feathers of that bird, 
Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon. 

1 ask thee not to work, or sigh — play on. 

From naught that was not, was, or is, deterred ; 

The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have 
stirred, 
And waved memorial grass of Marathon ; 
Play, but be gentle, not as on that day 

I saw thee running down the rims of doom 



438 



LOOKING DOWN. 



With stars thou hadst been stealing — while they lay 
Smothered in light and blue — clasped to thy breast ; 

Bring rather to me in the flrelit room 
A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. 



COMPENSATION. 

One launched a ship, but she was wrecked at sea ; 

He built a bridge, but floods have borne it down ; 
He meant ranch good, none came : strange destiny, 

His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears none to town, 

Yet good he had not meant became his crown ; 
For once at work, when even as nature free, 

From thought of good he was, or of renown, 
God took the work for good and let good be. 
So wakened with a trembling after sleep, 

Dread Mona Roa yields her fateful store ; 
All gleaming hot the scarlet rivers creep, 

And fanned of great-leaved palms slip to the shore, 
Then stolen to unplumbed wastes of that far deep, 

Lay the foundations for one island more. 



LOOKING DOWN. 

Mountains of sorrow, I have heard your moans, 
And the moving of your pines ; but we sit high 
On your green shoulders, nearer stoops the sky. 

And pure airs visit us from all the zones. 
Sweet world beneath, too happy far to sigh. 

Dost thou look thus beheld from heavenly thrones ? 

No ; not for all the love that counts thy stones, 
While sleepy with great light the valleys lie. 

Strange, rapturous peace ! its sunshine doth enfold 
My heart ; I have escaped to the days divine, 



MARRIED LOVERS. 



439 



It seemeth as bygone ages back had rolled, 
And all the eldest past was now, was mine ; 

Na}^ even as if Melchizedec of old 

Might here come forth to us with bread and wine. 



MARRIED LOVERS. 

Come away, the clouds are high, 
Put the flashing needles by. 
Many da^^s are not to spare, 
Or to waste, my fairest fair ! 
All is ready. Come to-day. 
For the nightingale her la}^ 
When she findeth that the whole 
Of her love, and all her soul, 
Cannot forth of her sweet throat, 
Sobs the while she .draws her breath, 
And the bravery of her note 
In a few days altereth. 
Come, ere she despond, and see 
In a silent ecstasy 

Chestnuts heave for hours and hours 
All the glory of their flowers 
To the melting blue above. 
That broods over them like love. 
Leave the garden walls, where blow 
Apple-blossoms pink, and low 
Ordered beds of tulips fine. 
Seek the blossoms made divine 
With a scent that is their soul. 
These are soulless. Bring the white 
Of thy gown to bathe in light 
Walls for narrow hearts. The whole 
Earth is found, and air and sea. 
Not too wide for thee and me. 



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440 MARRIED LOVERS. 



Not too wide, and yet thy face 

Gives the meaning of all space ; 

And thine eyes with starl)eanis fraught, 

Hold the measure of all thought ; 

For of them ni}' soul besought, 

And Avas shown a glimpse of thine — 

A veiled vestal, with divine 

Solace, in sweet love's despair, 

For that life is brief as fair. 

AVho hath most, he yearneth most, 

Sure, as seldom heretofore. 

Somewhere of the gracious more. 

Deepest joy the least shall boast. 

Asking with new-opened eyes 

The remainder ; that which lies 

O, so fair ! but not all conned — 

O, so near ! and yet beyond. 

Come, and in the woodland sit, 
Seem a wonted part of it. 
Then, while moves the delicate air. 
And the glories of thy hair 
Little flickering sun-rays strike. 
Let me see what thou art like ; 
For great love enthralls me so. 
That, in sooth, I scarcely know. 
Show me, in a house all green. 
Save for long gold wedges' sheen. 
Where the flies, white sparks of fire. 
Dart and hover and aspire. 
And the leaves, air-stirred on high. 
Feel such joy they needs must sigh. 
And the untracked grass makes sweet 
All fair flowers to touch thy feet, 
And the bees about them hum. 
All tlie world is waitina,'. Come ! 



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A WINTER SONG. 



441 



A WINTER SONG. 

Came the dread Archer up youder k\wn — 
Night is the time for the old to die — 

But woe for an arrow that smote the fawu, 

AVheu the hind that was sick unscathed went by 

Father la}- moaning, " Her fault was sore 
(Night is the time when the old must die), 

Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more. 
For heart is failing : the end is nigh." 

" Daughter, my daughter, m}' girl," I cried 
(Night is the time for the old to die), 

" Woe for the wish if till morn 3'e bide" — 
Dark was the welkin and wild the sky. 

Heavily plunged from the roof the snow — 
(Night is the time when the old will die). 

She answered, " My mother, 'tis well, I go." 
Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high. 

First at his head, and last at his feet 

(Night is the time when the old should die) , 

Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet, 

None else that loved him, none else were nigh. 

I wept in the night as the desolate weep 
(Night is the time for the old to die), 

Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep. 
Across the cold hollows how white they lie. 

I sought her afar through the spectral trees 
(Night is the time when the old must die). 

The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze, 
And a wrathful moon hung red in the skv. 



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442 BINDING SHEAVES. 

By uight I fouud her where pent waves steal 
(Night is the time when the old should die), 

But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel, 

And the old stars lived in their homes on hish. 



BINDING SHEAVES. 

Hark ! a lover binding sheaves, 

To his maiden sings, 
Flutter, flutter go the leaves, 

Larks drop their wings. 
Little brooks for all their mirth 

Are not blithe as he. 
" Give me what the love is worth 

That I give thee. 

" Speech that cannot be forborne 

Tells the story through : 
I sowed my love in with the corn, 

And they both grew. 
Count the world full wide of girth. 

And hived honey sweet, 
But count the love of more worth 

Laid at thy feet. 

" Money's worth is house and land, 

Velvet coat and vest. 
Work's worth is bread in hand, 

Ay, and sweet rest. 
Wilt thou learn what love is worth ? 

Ah ! she sits above, 
Sighing, ' Weigh me not with earth, 

Love's worth is love.' " 



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Hark! a lover binding sheaves 

To his maiden sings ; 
Flutter, flutter go the leaves. 

Larks drop their wings. Pa^e 442. 



WISHING. 



443 



WORK. 

Like coral insects multitudinous 

The minutes are whereof our life is made. 
They build it up, as ni the deep's blue shade 

It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus 

For both there is an end. The populous 

Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid 
Life's debt of work are spent ; tlie woik is laid 

Before our feet that shall come after us. 

We may not stay to watch if it will speed, 
The bard if on some luter's string his sons: 

Live sweetly yet ; the hero if his star 

Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed, 
Else have we none more than the sea-born throng 

Who wrouglit those marvellous isles that bloom afar. 




WISHING. 



W^HEN I reflect how little I have done, ^ 

And add to that how little I have seen, 

Then furthermore how little I have won 

Of joy, or good, how little known, or been: 
I long for other life more full, more keen, 

And yearn to change with such as well have run — 
Yet I'eason mocks me — nay, the soul, I ween, 

Granted her choice would dare to change with none. 

No, not to feel, as Blondel when his lay 

Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered 
it — 

No, not to do, as Eustace on the day 
He left fair Calais to her weeping fit — 

No, not to be, — Columbus, waked from sleep 

When his new world rose from the charmed deep. 




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444 OiV THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE. 

TO . 

Stkange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade 
Had dwelling iu dim Hades the unblest, 
While 3'et his form and presence sat a guest 

With the old immortals when the feast was made. 

Thine like, thus differs ; form and presence laid 
In this dim chamber of enforced rest, 
It is the unseen '•'•shade " which, risen, hath pressed 

Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed. 

My soul admires to hear thee speak ; thy thought 
Falls from a high place like an August star. 

Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings — 
When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar — 

Down the steep slope of a long sunbeam brought. 
He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings. 



OX THE BORDERS OF CAXXOCK CHASE. 

A COTTAGER leaned whispering by her hives. 
Telling the bees some news, as they lit down, 
And entered one by one their waxen town. 

Larks passioning hung o'er their brooding wives. 

And all the sunny hills where heather thrives 
Lay satisfied with peace. A stately crown 
Of trees enringed the upper headland brown, 

And reed}' pools, wherein the moor-hen dives, 

Glittered and gleamed. 

A resting-place for light. 
They that were bred here love it ; but they say, 

"We shall not have it long; in three years' time 
A hundred pits will cast out fires by night. 
Down yon still glen their smoke shall trail its way. 

And the white ash lie thick in lieu of riine.'" 



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THE MARINER'S CAVE. 



445 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

Once on a time there walked a mariner, 

That had been shipwrecked, on a lonely shore, 

And the green water made a restless stir, 
And a great flock of mews sped on before. 

He had nor food nor shelter, for the tide 

Rose on the one, and cliffs on the other side. 

Brown cliffs they were ; they seemed to pierce the 
sky. 

That was an awful deep of empt}- blue, 
Save that the wind was in it, and on high 

A wavering skein of wild-fowl tracked it through. 
He marked them not, but went with movement slow, 
Because his thoughts were sad, his courage low. 

His heart was numb, he neither wept nor sighed. 
But weari fully lingered by the wave ; 

Until at length it chanced that he espied 
Far up, an opening in the clitf, a cave, 

A shelter where to sleep in his distress. 

And lose his sorrow in forgetfulness. 

With that he clambered up the rugged face 
Of that steep cliff that all in shadow lay. 

And, lo, there was a dry and homelike place, 
Comforting refuge for tlie castaway ; 

And he laid down his weary, weary head. 

And took his fill of sleep till dawn waxed red. 

When he awoke, warm stirring from the south 
Of delicate summer air did sough and flow ; 

He rose, and, wending to the cavern's mouth. 
He cast his e3'es a little way below, 

Where on the narrow ledges, sharp and rude, 

Preening their wings, the blue rock-pigeons cooed. 



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446 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 



Then he looked lower and saw the lavender 
And sea-thrift blooming in long crevices, 

And the brown wallflower — April's messenger, 
The wallflower marshalled in her companies. 

Then lower yet he looked adown the steep, 

And sheer beneath him lapped the lovely deep. 

The laughing deep ; — and it was pacified 

As if had not raged that other day. 
And it went murmuring in the morningtide 

Innumerable flatteries on its wa}^ 
Kissing the cliffs and whispering at their feet 
With exquisite advancement, and retreat. 

This when the mariner beheld he sighed. 
And thought on his companions 13'ing low. 

But while he gazed with eyes unsatisfied 
On the fair reaches of their overthrow. 

Thinking it strange he only lived of all, 

But not returning thanks, he heard a call ! 

A soft sweet call, a voice of tender ruth. 

He thought it came from out the cave. And, lo, 

It whispered, " Man, look up ! " But he, forsooth, 
Answered, " I cannot, for the long waves flow 

Across my gallant ship where sunk she lies 

With all my riches and my merchandise. 

" Moreover, I am heavy for the fate 

Of these my mariners drowned in the deep ; 

I must laihent me for their sad estate 

Now they are gathered iu their last long sleep. 

O ! the unpitying heavens upon me frown. 

Then how should I look up? — I must look down." 

And he stood yet watching the fair green sea 

Till hunger reached him ; then he made a fire, 
A driftvvood fire, and wandered listlessly 



THE MARINERS CAVE. 447 

And gathered many eggs at his desire, 
And dressed them for his meal, and then he lay 
And slept, and woke upon the second day. 

When as he said, " The eave shall be my home ; 

None will molest me, for the brown cliffs rise 
Like castles of defence behind, — the foam 

Of the remorseless sea beneath me lies ; 
'Tis easy from the cliff my food to win, — 
The nations of the rock-dove breed therein. 

" For fuel, at the ebb yon fair expanse 

Is strewed with driftwood by the breaking wave. 

And in the sea is fish for sustenance. 
I will build up the entrance of the cave, 

And leave therein a window and a door. 

And here will dwell and leave it nevermore." 

Then even so he did ; and when his task. 
Many long days being over, was complete ; 

When he had eaten, as he sat to bask 
In the red firelight glowing at his feet. 

He was right glad of shelter, and he said, 

" Now for my comrades am I comforted." 

Then did the voice awake and speak again ; 

It murmured, '' Man, look up ! " But he replied, 
" I cannot. O, mine eyes, mine eyes are fain 

Down on the red wood-ashes to abide 
Because they warm me." Then the voice was still, 
And left the lonely mariner to his will. 

And soon it came to pass that he got gain. 

He had great flocks of pigeons which he fed, 
And drew great store of fish from out the main. 

And down from eider ducks ; and then he said, 
"It is not good that I should lead my life 
In silence, I will take to me a wife." 



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448 THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

He took a wife, and brought her home to him ; 

And he was good to her and cherished her 
So that she loved him ; then when light waxed dim 

Gloom came no more ; and slie would minister 
To all his wants ; while he, being well content, 
Counted her company right excellent. 

But once as on the lintel of the door 

She leaned to watch him while he put to sea, 

This happy wife, down-gazing at the shore, 
Said sweetly, "It is better now with me 

Than it was lately when I used to spin 

In my old father's house beside the lin." 

And then the soft voice of the cave awoke — 
The soft voice which had haunted it erewhile — 

And gently to the wife it also spoke, 

'^ Woman, look up ! " But she, with tender guile, 

Gave it denial, answering, " Nay, not so, 

For all that I should look on lieth below. 

" The great sky overhead is not so good 
For my two eyes as yonder stainless sea. 

The source and yielder of our livelihood, 
Where rocks his little boat that loveth me." 

This when the wife had said she moved away, 

And looked no higher than the wave all day. 

Now when the year ran out a child she bore, 
And there was such rejoicing in the cave 

As surely never had there been before 

Since God first made it. Then full, sweet, and 
grave, 

The voice, " God's utmost blessing brims tliy cup, 

O, father of this child, look up, look up !" 

" Speak to my wife," the mariner replied. 

"I have much work — right welcome work 'tis 
true — 




THE MARINER'S CAVE. 



449 



Another mouth to feed 

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Aud theu it sighed, 
" Woman, look up ! " She said, '•'• Make no ado, 
For I must needs look down, on anywise, 
My heaven is in the blue of these dear eyes." 

Tlie seasons of the year did swiftly whirl. 
They measured time by one small life alone ; 

On such a day the pretty pushing pearl 

That mouth they loved to kiss had sweetly shown, 

That smiling mouth, and it had made essay 

To give them names on such another day. 

And afterward his infant histor3^ 

AVhether he played with baubles on the floor. 
Or crept to pat the rock-doves pecking nigh, 

Aud feeding on the threshold of the door, 
They loved to mark, and all his marvellings dim, 
The mysteries that beguiled and baffled him. 

He was so sweet, that oft his mother said, 

"0, child, how was it that I dwelt content 
Before thou earnest ! Blessingc on thy head. 

Thy pretty talk it is so innocent, 
That oft for all my joy, thou'^-li it be deep, 
When thou art prattling, I am like to weep." 
Suramer and winter spent i:hemselves again, 

The rock-doves in their season bred, the cliff 
Grew sweet, for every cleft would entertain 

Its tuft of blossom, and the mariner's skiff, 
Eai'ly and late, would linger in the bay. 
Because the sea was calm and winds away. 

The little child about that rocky height. 

Led by her loving hand who gave him birth, 

Might wander in the clear unclouded light. 
And take his pastime in tlie beauteous earth ; 

Smell the fair flowers in stony cradles swung. 

And see God's happy creatures feed their young. 



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450 



THE MARINERS CAVE. 



And once it came to pass, at eventide, 
His motlier set liim in the cavera door, 

And filled his lap with grain, and stood aside 

To watch the circling rock-doves sour, and soar, 

Then dip, alight, and run in circling bands, 

To take the barley from his open hands. 

And even while she stood and gazed at him. 
And his grave father's eyes upon him dwelt, 

They heard the tender voice, and it was dim, 
And seemed full softly in the air to melt ; 

"Father," it murmured, "Mother," dying awav, 

" Look up, while yet the hours are called to-daj." 

"I will," the father answered, " but not now ; " 
The mother said, " Sweet voice, O speak to me 

At a convenient season." And the brow 
Of the cliff began to quake right fearfully, 

There was a rending crash, and there did leap 

A riven rock and plunge into the deep. 

They said, " A storm is coming ; ' but they slept 
That night in peace, and thought the storm had 
passed. 

For there was not a cloud to intercept 
The sacred moonlight on the cradle cast ; 

And to his rocking boat at dawn of day. 

With 303' of heart the mariner took his way. 

But when he mounted up the path at night. 
Foreboding not of trouble or mischance, 

His wife came out into the fading light, 
And met him with a serious countenance ; 

And she broke out in tears and sobbings thick, 

"The little child is sick, my little child is sick." 

The}' knelt beside him in the sultry dark. 

And when the moon looked in his face was pp^e, 
And when the red sun, like a burning bark. 



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THE MARINER'S CAVE. 



45 ^ 



Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wail 
Sank deep into their hearts, and piteonsly 
They fell to chiding of their destiny. 

The doves unheeded cooed that livelong day, 
Their pretty playmate cai-ed for them no more s 

The sea-thrift nodded, wet with glistening spray, 
None gathered it ; the long wave washed the shore ; 

He did not know, nor lift his eyes to trace. 

The new fallen shadow in jjis dwelling-place. 

The sultry sun beat on the cliffs all day. 
And hoG calm airs slept on the polished sea, 

The mournful mother wore her time away, 
Bemoaning of hor helpless miser}'. 

Pleading and plaining, till the day was done, 

" O look on me, my love, my little one. 

" What aileth thee, that thou dost lie and moan? 

Ah ! would that I might bear it in thy stead." 
The father made not his forebodings known, 

But gazed, and in his secret soul he said, 
" I may have sinned, on sin waits punishment, 
B"t as for him, sweet blameless innocent, 

" What has he done that he is stricken down? 

O it is hard to see him sink and fade, 
When I, that counted him my dear life's crown. 

So willingU' have worked while he has played ; 
That be might sleep, have risen, come storm, come 

heat, 
And thankfully would fast that he might eat." 

My God, how short our happy days appear ! 

How long the sorrowful ! They thouglit it long, 
The sultry morn that brought such evil cheer. 

And sat, and wished, and sighed for evensong; 
It came, and cooling wafts about him stirred, 
Yet when they spoke he answered not a word. 



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452 



2 HE MAR/iVEJi'S CAVE. 



" Take heart," they cried, but their sad hearts sank 
low 

"NVheu he would moau and turn his restless head, 
And wearily the lagging morns would go. 

And nights, while they sat watching by his bed, 
Until a storm came up with wind and rain. 
And liglitniug ran along the troubled main. 

Over their heads the mighty tlumders brake. 
Leaping and tumbling down from rock to rock, 

Then burst anew and made the cliffs to quake 
As they were living things and felt the shock ; 

The waiting sea to sob as if in pain, 

And all the midnight vault to ring again. 

A lam[i was burning in the mariner's cave, 
But the blue lightning flashes made it dim ; 

And when the mother heard those thunders rave, 
She took her little chiki to cherish him ; 

She took him in her arms, and on her breast 

Full wearily she courted him to rest. 

And soothed him long until the storm was spent, 
And the last thunder peal had died away, 

And stars were out in all the firmament. 

Then did he cease to moan, and slumbering lay, 

"While in the welcome silence, pure and deep, 

The care-worn parents sweetly fell asleep. 

And in a dream, enwrought with fancies thick. 
The mother thought she heard the rock-doves coo 

(She had forgotten that her child was sick). 
And she went forth their morning meal to strew : 

Then over all the cliff with earnest care 

She sought her child, and lo, he was not there I 

But she was not afraid, though long she sought 

And climbed the cliff", and set her feet in grass, 
Then reached a river, broad aud full, she thought, 



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THE MARINER'S CAVE. 453 






And at its brink he sat. Alas ! alas ! 


«. 


^ Foi- one stood near liira, fair and undefiled, '^ ' 
An innocent, a marvellous man-child. 

In garments white as w(jol, and 0, most fair, 

A rainbow covered him with niN'stic light ; 
Upon the warmed grass his feet were bare. 

And as he breathed, the rainbow in her sight 
In passions of clear crimson trembling lay. 
With gold and violet mist made fair the day. 

Her little life ! she thought, his little hands 
Were full of flowers that he did play withal ; 

But when he saw the boy o' the golden lands. 
And looked him in the face, he let them fall, 

Held through a rapturous pause in wistful wise 

To the sweet strangeness of those keen child-eyes. 

" Ah, dear and awful God, who chastenest me. 

How shall my soul to this be reconciled ! 
It is the Saviour of the world," quoth she, 
" And to my child He cometh as a child." 
^ Then on her knees she fell by that vast stream — 
Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's dream ! 

For lo, that Elder Child drew nearer now, 

Fair as the light, and purer than the sun. 
The calms of heaven were brooding on his brow. 

And in his arms He took her little one. 
Her child, that knew her, but with sweet demur 
Drew back, nor held his hands to come to her. 

With that in mother misery sore she wept — 

" Lamb of God, I love my child so much ! 
He stole away to Thee while we two slept. 






. P But give him back, for thou hast many such ; ^ 
And as for me I have but one. deign. 
Dear Pity of God, to give him me again." 


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454 



A REVERIE. 



His feet were on the river. Oh, his feet 

Had touched the river now, and it was great ; 

And yet He hearkened when she did entreat, 
And turned in quietness as He would wait — 

Wait till she looked upon Him, and behold, 

There lay a long wa}- off a city of gold. 

Like to a jasper and a sardine stone, 

Whelmed in the rainbow stood that fair man-child, 
Might}' and innocent, that held her own. 

And as might be his manner at home he smiled. 
Then while she looked and looked, the vision brake. 
And all amazed she started up awake. 

And lo, her little child was gone indeed ! 

The sleep that knows no waking he had slept, 
Folded to heaven's own heart ; in rainbow brede 
Clothed and made glad, while they two mourned 
and wept. 
But in the drinking of their bitter cup 
The sweet voice spoke once more, and sighed, 
" Look up ! " 

They heard, and straightway answered, " Even so : 
For what abides that we should look on here ? 

The heavens are better than this earth below. 
They are of more account and far more dear. 

We will look up, for all most sweet and fair. 

Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there." 



A REVERIE. 

When I do sit apart 

And commune with my heart. 
She brings me forth the treasures once my own ; 

Shows me a happy place 

Where leaf -buds swelled apace, 
And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone. 




Once to that cottage door. 
In happy days of yore. 
My little love made footprints in the snow. 
She was so glad of spring 
She helped the birds to sing. Page 455 



A REVERIE. 



455 



Rock, in a mossy glade, 

The larch-trees lend thee shade. 
That just begin to feather with their leaves ; 

From out thy crevice deep 

AYhite tufts of snowdrops peep, 
And melted rime drips softly from thine eaves. 

Ah, rock, I know, I know 

That yet thy snowdrops grow, 
And yet doth sunshine fleck them through the tree. 

Whose sheltering branches hide 

The cottage at its side. 
That nevermore will shade or shelter me. 

I know the stockdoves' note 

Athwart the glen doth float ; 
With sweet foreknowledge of her twins oppressed, 

And longing onward sent, 

She broods before the event. 
While leisurely she mends her shallow nest. 

Once to that cottage door, 

In happy days of 3'ore, 
My little love made footprints in the snow. 

She was so glad of spring, 

She helped the birds to sing, 
I know she dwells there 3'et — the rest I do not know. 

They sang, and would not stop, 

While drop, and drop, and drop, 
I heard the melted rime in sunshine fall ; 

And narrow wandering rills. 

Where leaned the daffodils. 
Murmured and murmured on, and that was all. 

I think, but cannot tell, 
I think she loved me well. 
And some dear fancy with my future twined. 




456 DKFTO.V WOOD. 

But 1 shall never kuow. 
Hope faints, and lets it go. 
That passionate want forbid to speak its mind. 



DEFTOX WOOD. 

I HKLPt my way through Defton AVood, 

And on to "Wandor Hall ; 
The dancing leaf let down the light. 

In hovering spots to fall. 
•• O young, young leaves, you match me well," 

^ly heart was merry, and sung — 
•• Now wish me joy of my sweet youth ; 

My love — she, too, is young I 

O so many. many, many 

Little homes alx>ve my head I 
O so many, many, many 

Dancing blossoms round me spread ! 
O so many. many, many 

Maidens sighing yet for none ! 
Speed, ye wooei"s. speed with any — 

Speed with all but one." 

I took my leave of Wandor Hall. 

And trod the woodland ways. 
" What shall I do so long to bear 

The burden of my days ? " 
1 sighed my heart into the boughs 

Whereby the culvers cooed : 
For only I between them went 

Un wooing and unwooed. 

"• O so many. many, many 

Lihes bending stately heads ! 
O so many. many, many 

Strawberries ripened on their beds ' 



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THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 



457 



O so many, many, many 

Maids, and yet my heart undone ! 
What to me are all, are any — 

I have lost mj' — one." 



THE SNOWDRr;]' MOXUMEXT 
(/rt Liclijidd (J allied nil.) 

Marvels of sleep, grown cold I 

Who hath not longed to fold 
With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss, 

Those cherub forms that lie, 

With none to watch them nigh, 
Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss? 

What I they are left alone 

All night with graven stone, 
Pillars and arches that above them meet ; 

While through those windows high 

The journeying stars can spv^, 
And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered 
feet ? 

O cold I yet look again. 

There is a wandering vein 
Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie. 

Let her rapt dreamy smile 

The wondering heart beguile. 
That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh. 

What silence dwells between 

Those severed lips serene I 
The rapture of sweet waiting breathes and grows. 

What trance-like peace is shed 

On her reclining head, 
And e'en on listless feet what languor of repose ! 



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458 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 



Angels of joy and love 

Lean softly from above 
And whisi)er to her sweet and nuuvellons things ; 

Tell of the golden gate 

That opened wide doth wait. 
And shadow her dim sleep with their celestial wings. 

Hearing of that blest shore 

She thinks on earth no more. 
Contented to forego this wintry land. 

8he has nor thonght nor eare 

Bnt to rest calmly there. 
And hold the snowdrops pale that blossom in her 
hand. 

Bnt on the other face 

Broodeth a mournfnl grace, 
This had foreboding thonglits beyond her years, 

While sinking thus to sleep 

She saw her mother weep. 
And could not lift her hand to dry those heart-sick 
tears. 

Could not — but failing lay, 

Sighed her young life away, 
And let her arm drop down in listless rest, 

Too weary on that bed 

To turn her dying head, 
Or fold the little sister nearer to her breast. 

Yet this is faintly told 

On features fair and cold, 
A look of calm surprise, of mild regret, 

As if Avith life oppressed 

vSJie turiu'd ]\er to her rest. 
But UA\ \\v\- mother's love and looked not to forget. 



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^ ^ — ■ ^ — ^ g ^ 

AN' ANCIENT CHESS KING. 459 



How wistfully they close, 

Sweet eyes, to their repose ! 
How quietly declines the placid brow ! 

The young lips seem to say, 

" I have wept much to-day. 
And felt some bittei- pains, but they are over now." 

Sleep ! there are left below 

Many who pine to go, 
Many who lay it to their chastened souls, 

TJKit gloomy days dr;iw nigh, 

And they are blest who die. 
For this green world grows worse the longer that 
she rolls. 

And as for me I know 

A little of her woe. 
Her yearning want doth in my soul abide. 

And sighs of them that weep, 

" O put us soon to sleep. 
For when we wake— with Thee — we shall be satisfied." 



AN ANCIENT CHESS KING. 

Haim,y some Rajah first in the ages gone 
Amid his languid ladies lingered thee, 
While a black nightingale, sun-swart as he, 

Sang his one wife, love's passionate oraison ; 

Haply thou may'st have pleased Old Prester John 
Among his pastures, when full royally 
He sat in tent, grave shepherds at his knee. 

While lamps of balsam winked and glimmered on. 

What doest thou here ? Thy masters are all dead ; 
My heart is full of ruth and yearning pain 



SEF 



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460 



/•//( '/ ■( ;// . //./. ( /Av;. / /• DKijjjs. 



At siiilil of lln'i> ; kiii^- lh;il hast u crown 

Outlasliiii; tlii>irs, and toll'st of tiroatnoss tUnl 
'Plironi:'!! cloud-linnu' nijilits of iinaltatotl laiii 
And nnninurs of tlii' dark niaji'stic k>\vn. 



coMKoKi" IN riii; M(;iri'. 

SiiK tlionulit hv heaven's hi^h wall thai slu> diil stray 

'I'ill slu" lu'iu'ld tlu> cverlaslino' ii"ati> : 

And she eliuihed up to it to Umi>;', and wait, 
l'\>el with her hamls (for it was niuht), and hiv 
Her lips to it with kisses ; thus to pray 

That it might opiMi to her ilesolate. 

And lo ! it trembled, lo I her passionate 
Cryiiii); prevaih'd. A little, little way 
It opened : there fell out a tiu'ead o^ light. 

And she saw wingOil WH>uders n)o\e within ; 
Also she heard sweet talking as they meant 
'To ei)ml\>rt her. They said, " NVho t'onies to-night 

Shall one dav I'ertaiuU an enti'auee win ; " 
Then the uate I'losed and she awoke eonti'nt. 



'I'lioi cii Aid. (ii!!' \'r nKi:ns. 

Tuoi'tiii all great deeds were proved hut failles line. 

Though i-arth'sold stt>ry eouKl he toUl anew. 

Though the sweet fashions Uned of them that sue 
Were empty as the ruineil Delphian shrine — 
Though i\oi\ ditl n»n(>r man. in words luMiign. 

With sensi> o'i llis gri'at Fatherhood endue, — 

Though life innnortal were a dream untrue. 
And lie that prt)miseil it were not divine — 
'I'hough soul, though spirit wiMe not and all lu>pe 

l\eaehin«>" hevouil the bourn, nu>lted awav ; 



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AS I CAME ROUND THE HAKliOK i',u< 



I'aok 4^'I. 



THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 



4C1 



Tlioii<4ii virtiit; li;i<l 110 f^oal and f^ood no scope, 

lint h(;tli w(;i(; doomed to end with this f)ur clay — 
Tlioiif^li all these were not, — to tin; un<^raced heir 
Would this I'enuiin, — to live, as though they were. 




JI 



T'lK I>)\t; WUITK SEAM. 

As 1 came round tlie htiihoi' buoy, , 

The lights bej^an to glvatii. 
No wave the land-locked watei- stiiied, 

The crags were white a« cream ; 
And 1 marked my love by candht-light 
Sewing her h^ng white 8(!am. 

It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, 

Watch and steer at nea. 
It's reef and furl, and haul the line, 
Set sail and think of the*;. 

I climbed to her cottage door ; 

O sweetly my love sings ! 
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, 

My soul to meet it springs 
As the shining water l(!ap(!d of old, 
VVh(m stirred by angel wings. 
Aye longing to list anew. 

Awake and in my dream, 
But never a song she sang like tiiis, 
Sewing her long white seam. 

Fair fall the lights, the haibor lights, 

That brought me in to thee. 
And peace drop down on that low loof 

For the sight that 1 did see. 
And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear 

All for th(; love of me. 



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46: 



AlSr OLD WIFE'S SONG. 

For O, for O, with brows bent low 
By the candle's flickering gleam, 

Her wedding gown it was she wrought, 
Sewins; the long white seam. 



AN OLD AVIFE'S SOXC^. 

And what .will ye hear, my daughters dear? — 

Oh, what will ye hear this night? 
Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer, 

Or of lovers and ladies bright? 

" Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far away 
From the laud where fain would we be), 

" Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strain 
That is sung in our own countrie. 

" Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago. 

When we walked on the upland lea, 
While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white, 

Lo'ug rays shooting out from the sea ; 

" While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deep 
On the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair. 

Never grass was seen so thick nor so green 
As the grass that grew up there ! 

" In the town was no smoke, for none there awoke — 
At our feet it lay still as still could be ; 

And we saw far below the long river flow. 
And the schooners a-warping out to sea. 

" Sing us now a strain shall make us feel again 
As we felt in that sacred peace of morn. 

When we had the first view of the wet sparkling dew, 
In the shyness of a day just born." 



^ 



COLD AMD QUIET. 4^': 



So I sang an old song — it was plain and not long — 

I had sung it very oft when they were small ; 
And long ere it was done they wept every one : 

Yet this was all the song — this was all : — ■ 
The snow lies white, and the moon gives light, 

I'll out to the freezing mere. 
And ease my heai't with one little song, 

For none will be nigh to hear. 

And it's O my love, my love ! 

And it's O my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, 

When nobody's nigh to hear. 
My love is young, she is young, is young ; 

When she laughs the dimple dips. 
We walked in the wind, and her long locks blew 

Till sweetly they touched my lips. 

And I'll out to the freezing mere, 

Where the stiff reeds whistle so low. 
And I'll tell my mind to the friendly wind, 

Because I have loved her so. 
Ay, and she's true, my lady is true ! 

And that's the best of it all ; 
And when she blushes my heart so yearns 

That tears are ready to fall. 

And it's O my love, m}' love ! 

And it's O my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring. 

When nobody's nigh to hear. 



COLD AND QUIP:T. 

Cold, ray dear, — cold and quiet. 

In their cups on yonder lea. 
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet ; 

So the moss enfoldeth thee. 



ir 




464 



A SAWr MOUNTAIN. 



'• Phiut me, plant me, O love, a lily flower — 
Plant at my bead, I pray you, a green tree ; 

And when our children sleep," she sighed, " at the 
dusk hour. 
And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me I " 

Lost, my dear? Lost! nay, deepest 

Love is that which loseth least ; 
Through the night-time while thou sleepest. 
Still I watch the shrouded east. 
Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth, 
•• Lost" is no word for such a love as mine ; 
Love from her past to me a present giveth. 

And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine. 

Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth 
Tliat which was. and not in vain 
Sacred have 1 kept, God knoweth. 
Love's last words atweeu us twain. 
" Hold by our past, my only love, my lover; 
Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me ! " 
Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang 
over. 
Love, uow the children slumber, I come out to 
thee. 



A SNOW :mouxtaix. 

Cax I make white enough my thought for thee. 

Or wash my words in light ? Thou hast no mate 
To sit aloft in silence silently 

And twin those matchless heights undesecrate. 
Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he 

Stood, with his old white head, surprised at fate : 
Alone as Galileo, when, set free. 

Before the stars he mused disconsolate. 
Av. and remote, as the dead lords of song, 



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SLEEP. — PROMISING. 



465 



Great masters who have made us what we are, 
For thou and they have tauglit us how to long 

And feel a sacred want of the fair and far : 
Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire — 
Our only greatness is that we aspire. 



SLEEJ'. 



(a WOMAN SPEAKS.) 

O SLEEP, we are beholden to thee, sleep, 
Thou bearest angels to us in the night, 
Saints out of heaven with palms. Seen by th}' 
light 

Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep ; 

Love is a pouting child. Once 1 did sweep 

Through space with thee, and, lo, a dazzling sighf — 
Stars ! They came on, I felt their drawing and 
might ; 

And some had dark companions. Once (I weep 

When I remember that) we sailed the tide. 

And found fair isles, where no isles used to bide. 
And met there my lost love, who said to me, 

That 'twas a long mistal'e : he had not died. 

Sleep, in the world to come how strange 'twill be 
Never to want, never to wish for thee ! 



PROMISING. 

(a man SPEAKS.) 

Once, a new world, the sun-swart marinere, 
Columbus, promised, and was sore withstood, 

Ungraced, unhelped, unheard for many a year; 
But let at last to make his promise good. 



UK 



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466 LOrE. 



Promised and promising 1 go, most dear. 

To better my dull heart with love's sweet feud, 
Mj- life with its most reverent hope and fear, 

And uw religion, with fair gratitude. 
O we must part ; the stars for me contend. 

And all the winds that blow on all the seas. 
Through wonderful waste places I must wend, 

And with a promise my sad soul appease. 
Promise then, promise much of far-off bliss ; 
But — ah, for present joy, give me one kiss. 



LOVE. 



Who veileth love should first have vanquished fate. 
She folded up the dream in her deep heart, 
Her fair full lips were silent on that smart. 

Thick fringed eves did on the grasses wait. 

What good? one eloquent blush, butone, and straight 
The meaning of a life was known ; for art 
Is often foiled in playing nature's part, 

And time holds nothing long inviolate. 

Earth's buried seed springs up — slowly, or fast: 

The ring came home, that one in ages past 
Flung to the keeping of unfathomed seas : 
And golden apples on the mystic trees 

Were sought and found, and borne away at last. 
Though watched of the divine Hesperides. 



HENIiV. 467 



POEMS 

Written on the Deaths of Three Lovely Children iclio icere 
taken from their Parents ivithin a Month of one another. 



HENRY, 

AGKl) EIGHT YEARS. 

Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter — woodland 
hollows thickly strewing, 
Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the 
mid-day win, 
"While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in sad- 
dened hues imbuing 

All without and all within ! 

All within ! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round 
their dwelling 
Did not load your father's spirit with those deep 
and burdened sighs ; — 
Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's 
bosom swelling. 

Fast as tears that dim her eyes. 

Life is fraught with man}- changes, checked with 
sorrow and mutation. 
But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before 
to know : — 
I behold them — father, mother — as they seem to 
contemplation, 

Onlv three short weeks ago ! 



468 



HENRY. 



Saddened for the morrow's parting — up the stairs 
at midnight stealing — 
As with cautious foot we glided past the children's 
open door, — 
" Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled 
forms at last revealing, 

" Kiss them in their sleep once more." 

You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids 
scarce!}" closing, 
Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded 
arms entwined : — 
And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in 
their reposing 

By the movements of the mind I 

And 3"Our mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleep- 
ing treasures numbered. 
Whispering fondly — *• He is dreaming" — as you 
turned upon your bed — 
And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, 
as 3'ou slumbered. 

With his hand upon your head I 

Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? 
No ! he never 
Heard afar the summons uttered — '-Come up 
hither " — Never knew 
How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy 
forever. 

And forever in their view. 

Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were 
by us, 
Shrouding wings — majestic beings — hidden by 
this earthly veil — 
Such as we have called on, saying, •• Praise the Lord, 
O Ananias, 

Azarias and Misael I 



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H 2 c Kl 

HENRY. 469 


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But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the mis- 


,_ 


L sioiKjd Spirits taught him, 


J , 






To that one small bed drawu nearer, when we left 


* 






him to their will? 








While he slumbered, who can answer for what 








dreams they may have brought him, 








When at midnight all was still? 








Father ! Mother ! must you leave him on his bed, 








but not to slumber? 








Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast. 








but not to pray? 








When you count your children over, must you tell a 








different number, 








Since that happier yesterday ? 








Father ! Mother ! weep if need be, since this is a 








" time" for weeping, 








Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never 








argued down — 








Coldly sounds the admonition, "Why lament? in 








better keeping 








Rests the child than in your own." 








"Truth indeed! but, oh ! compassion! Have you 








sought to scan my sorrow?" 








(Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that 








common tale) 








"Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow- 








feeling borrow 








Even a tone that might avail? 








" Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep lieart- 








warm affection? 








Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond 








r> words to combine ? 

Surely no ! I will be silent, in your soul is no retiettion 
Of the care that burdens mine 1 " 


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470 



HEXRV. 



Wheu the winter twilight gathers. Father, and your 
thonghts shall wander. 
Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your list- 
less reveries. 
Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon 
you ponder 

From its place upon your knees — 

"With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful 
wonder. 
Of itself the heart shall question. '"Art thou then 
no longer here ? 
Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunder 
"Who were wont to be so near? " 

While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened 
shades are meeting. 
To itself the heart shall answer, •• He shall come 
to me no more : 
I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet 
voice eutreatiug 

For admission at my door." 

But upon your fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor 
griefs are dwelling. 
Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful fea- 
tures know ; 
Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their 
sad hearts to be telling. 

•• Daylight breaketh. let me go I " 

Daylight breaketh. little Hem-y ; in its beams your 
soul awaketh — 
"What though night should close around us. dim 
and dreary to the view — 
Though our souls should walk in darkness, far away 
that moruing breaketh 

Into endless dav for vou ! 



iinnv; 



^s 



SAMUEL. 



471 



SAMUEL, 

AGED NINE YEAKS. 

They have left you, little Henry, but they have not 
left you lonely — 
Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might 
not separate dwell, 
Fain to seek a'ou in the mansions far away — One 
lingered only 

To bid those behind farewell ! 

Gentle B03' ! — His childlike nature in most guileless 
form was moulded, 
And it may be that his spirit woke in glory un- 
aware, 
Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still 
meekly folded. 

Having said his evening prayer. 

Or — if conscious of that summons " Speak, O Lord, 
Thy servant heareth " — 
As one said, whose name they gave him, might 
his willing answer be, 
' ' Here am I " — like him replying — ' ' At Thy gates 
my soul appeareth. 

For behold Thou calledst me ! " 

A deep silence — utter silence, on his earthly home 
descendeth : — 
Reading, playing, sleeping, waking — he is gone, 
and few remain ! 
" O the loss ! " — they utter, weeping — every voice 
its echo lendeth — 

" O the loss ! " — But, O the gain ! 



JIL 



"^y 



:7- 



47^ 



SAMUEL. 



On that trtinquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed au 
early hindiug. 
Lest the toils of crime should stain it. or the thrall 
of guilt eoutrol — 
Lest that •• wickedness should alter the yet simple 
understanding. 

Or deceit beguile his soul ! " 

••Lav not up on earth thy treasure" — they have 
read that sentence duly. 
Moth and rust shall fret thy riches — earthly good 
hath swift decay — 
•• Even so." each heart replieth — "As for me, my 
riches truly 

^L^ke them wings and flee away !" 

• • my riches ! — O my children ! — deai^est part of 
life and being. 
Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's 
declining years. — 
Were our voices cold to hearing — or our faces cold 
to seeing. 

That ye left us to our tears?" 

'•We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some 
merry laughter. 
And the hush of two sweet voices — (healing 
sounds for spirits bruised I) 
Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway fol- 
lowing after. 

Of two names no longer used I " 

Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and 
childish fashion — 
Search and seek them. Baby Brother, with your 
calm and asking eyes — 
Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad 
compassion. 

Mild regret or dim surprise ! 



m 



'^ '- 



^ 



SAMUEL. 



473 



There are two tall trees above you, by the high east 
window growing, 
Underneatli them, slumber sweeth', lapt in silence 
deep, serene ; 
Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes to- 
wards you flowing 

Echo — with a pause between ! 

And that pause? — a voice shall fill it — tones that 
blessed you daily, nightly. 
Well beloved, but not suflficing. Sleepers, to awake 
you now, 
Though so near he stand, that shadows from your 
trees ma}' tremble lightly 

On his book and on his brow ! 

Sleep then ever ! Neither singing of sweet birds shall 
break your slumber. 
Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, 
nor drift of snow, 
Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tran- 
quil bosoms cumber 

With one care for things below ! 

It is something, the assurance, that you ne'er shall 
feel like sorrow, 
Weep no past and dread no future — know not 
sighing, feel not pain — 
Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuUer to- 
morrow — 

" Clouds returning after rain ! " 

No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each 
soul awaketh : 
" What though clouds." they sigh, " be gathered 
dark and stormy to the view, 
Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet 
behold it breaketh 

Into endless dav for vou I " 




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474 KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 






' 


KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 


J o 






(asleep IX THE DAYTIME.) 








All rough winds are hushed and silent, gokien light 








the meadow steepeth, 








Aud the last October roses daily wax more pale 








and fair : 








Tliey have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of 








one who sleepeth 








With a sunbeam on her hair. 








Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as 








one that dreameth, 








And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips 








that may not speak ; 








Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of 








glory gleameth 








On the sainted brow and cheek. 








There is silence ! They who watch her, speak no 








word of grief or wailing. 








In a strange unwonted calmness thej' gaze on and 








cannot cease, 








Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink 








back, and hope be failing. 








They, like Aaron, " hold their peace." 








While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long- 








slow pauses soundeth ; 








Long they hearken — father — mother — love has 








nothing more to say : 






•~ 


-» Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where 
love aboundeth 

Tolls the heavy bell this day. 


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F 



KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. 475 

Still iu silence to its tolling they count over all her 
meetness 
To he near their hearts and soothe them in all sor- 
rows and all fears ; 
Her short life lies spread before them, but they 
cannot tell her sweetness, 

Plasily as tell her years. 

Only daughter — Ah! how fondly Thought around 
that lost name lingers, 
Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep 
and droop her head, 
She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those 
imitative fingers, 

Drawing out her aimless thread. 

In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheered 
to-morrow. 
But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calm 
towards him lean — 
Like a threefold cord shall draw him through the 
weariness of sorrow, 

Nearer to the things unseen. 

With the closing of 3'our eyelids close the dreams of 

expectation, [their way : 

And so ends the fairest chapter in the records of 

Therefore — O thou God most holy — God of rest 

and consolation. 

Be thou near to them this day ! 

Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed 
of infant brothers. 
Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall 
bless them on tbeir knees ; 
And shall think how coldly falleth the white moon- 
light on the others. 

In their bed beneath the trees. 



^ 



J ,-t 2 . 1-^ 



476 KAT/E, AGED EIIE YEARS. 

Be Thou near, when they, they onlv, bear those faces 
in remembrance. 
And the number of their chiUh-eu stranger:- ask 
them with a smile : 
And when other childlike faces touch them by the 
strong resemblance 

To those turned to them erewhile. 

Be Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course 
and conflict nerving. 
Let Thy voice say, '-Father — mother — lo I tin- 
treasures live above I 
Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over 
much with serving 

At the shrine of human love." 

Let them sleep I In course of ages e'en the Holy 

House shall crumble. [its decline. 

And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to 

And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked 

in clothing humble. 

Creeping moss shall round them twine. 

Ancient arches, old and hoai-y. suuuy beams shall 
glimmer through them. 
And invest them with a beauty we would fain they 
should not share. 
And the moonlight slanting down them, the white 
moonlight sh:ill imbue them 

With a sadness dim and fair. 

Then the soft gi-een moss shall wrap you. and the 
world shall all forget you. 
Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall 
pass you by : 
Generations come and vanish : but it shall not gi-ieve 
nor fret you. 

That thev sin. or that thev siirh. 



Jl 



^^^Iji^ 



/Ids 



^ 



MARGARET nv 77 /Ji A77lR7': S7JJ7C. 477 

And the world, growing old in sinning, shall deny 
her first b(;giniiing, 
And think scorn of words wliicii whisper how that 
all must pass away ; 
Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain 
tradition, 

And a dream, the reckoning dtiy I 

Till His blast, a blast of tei'ror, shall awake in shani(! 
and sadness 
P^aithless millions to a vision of the failing earth 
and skies, 
And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout 
of joy and gladness, 

Call the dead in Christ to rise ! 

Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear 
from their transgression. 
Father — mother — you shall meet th(;m fnirer than 
the}' were before, 
And have joy with the Redeemed, joy ear hath not 
heard — heart dreamed, 

Av forever — evermore ! 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



MARGARET BY TUE MERE SIDE. 

Lying imbedded in the green champaign 
That gives no shadow to thy silvery face, 

Open to all the heavens, and all their train, 

The marshalled clouds that cross with stately pace, 

No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest. 

Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast. 



n: 



M 



478 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



O, silent Mere ! about whose marges spring 
Tliick bulrushes to hide the reed-bird's nest ; 

Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing, 
And balanced in the water takes her rest : 

While under bending leaves, all gem-arrayed, 

Blue dragon-flies sit panting in the shade : 

Warm, stilly place, the sundew loves thee well, 
And the greensward comes creeping to thy brink, 

And golden saxifrage and pimpernel 

Lean down to thee their perfumed heads to drink ; 

And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend 

White clover, and beneath thy wave descend : 

AYliile the sweet scent of bean-fields, floated wide 

On a long eddy of the lightsome air 
Over the level mead to thy lone side, 

Doth lose itself among thy zephj^s rare. 
With wafts from hawthorn bowers and new-cut hay, 
And blooming orchards lying far away. 

Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calm 
Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, and then 

There is a sound of bells, a far-off psalm 

From gray church towers, that swims across the 
fen ; 

And the light sigh where grass and waters meet, 

Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet. 

Thou hast tin- lovers. Though the angler's rod 
Dimple thy surface seldom ; though the oar 

Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod. 
Nor send long ripples to thy lonely shore ; 

Though few, as in a glass, have cared to trace 

The smile of nature moving on thy face ; 



n; 



HJ 



MARGARET BY' THE MERE SIDE. 



479 



Thou hast thy loveis truly. 'Mid the cold 

Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee, 

And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold, 
And shape their course, high soaring, till they see 

Down in the world, like molten silver, rest 

Their goal, and screaming plunge them in th}' breast. 

Fair Margaret, who sittest all day long 
On the gray stone beneath the sycamore. 

The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong, 
The only one to grace the level shore, 

"Why dost thou wait? for whom with patient cheer 

Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere? 

Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, alas ! 

Long watchings leave behind them little ti-ace ; 
And yet how sweetly must the mornings pass, 

That bring thai dreamy calmness to thy face ! 
How quickly must the evenings come that find 
Thee still regret to leave the Mere behind ! 



Thy cheek is resting on thy hand ; thine eyes 
Are like twin violets but half enclosed, 

And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies. 
Never more peacefully in love reposed 

A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear, 

Than thine upon the long far-stretching Mere. 

Sweet innocent ! Thy yellow hair floats low 
In rippling undulations on thy breast, 

Then stealing down the parted love-locks flow, 
Bathed in a sunbeam on thy knees to rest, 

And touch those idle hands that folded lie, 

Having from sport and toil a like immunity, 

Through thy life's dream with what a touching grace 

Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown ; 
Y. \- dimples linger yet T^pon thy face. 



^^A- 



48o 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



Like clews upon a lily this day blown ; 
Thy sighs are born of peace, unruffled, deep ; 
So the babe sighs on mother's breast asleep. 

It sighs, and wakes, — but thou ! thy dream is all, 
And thou wert born for it, and it for tliee ; 

Morn doth not take thy heart, nor even-fall 
Charm out its sorrowful fidelity, 

Nor noon beguile thee from the pastoral shore, 

And thy long watch beneath the sycamore. 

No, down the Mere, as far as eye can see, 
Where its long reaches fade into the sky. 

Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly ; 
But neither thou nor any can descry 

Aught but the grassy banks, the rustling sedge. 

And flocks of wild-fowl, splashing at their edge. 

And yet 'tis not with expectation hushed 

That thy mute rosy mouth doth pouting close ; 
No fluttering hope to thy young heart e'er rushed, 
■ Nor disappointment troubled its repose ; 
All satisfied with gazing evermore 
Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore. 

The brooding wren flies pertly near thy seat. 
Thou wilt not move to mark her glancing wing : 

The flmid sheep browse close before thy feet. 
And heedless at thy side do thrushes sing, 

So long amongst them thou hast spent thy days. 

They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise 

Thou wilt not lift it up — not e'en to take 
The foxglove bells that flourish in the shade, 

And put them in thy bosom ; not to make 
A posy of wnld hyacinth inlaid 

Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass. 

With freckled orchis and pale sassafras. 



^ 



y? - 



MARGARET BV THE MERE SIDE. 481 

Gaze on ; — take in the voices of the Mere, 
The break of shallow water at thy feet, 

Its splash among long reeds and grasses sere, 
And its weird sobbing, ■ — hollow mnsic meet 

For ears like thine ; listen and talk thy fill, 

And dream on it by night, when all is still. 

Full sixteen j^ears have slowly passed awa}^, 
Young Margaret, since thy fond mother here 

Came down, a six months' wife, one April day, 
To see her husband's boat go down the Mere, 

And track its course, till, lost in distance blue, 

In mellow light it faded from her view. 

It faded, and she never saw it more ; — 

Nor any human eye ; — oh, grief! oh, woe ! 

It faded, — and returned not to shore ; 
But far above it still the waters flow — 

And none beheld it sink, and none could tell 

Where coldly slept the form she loved so well ! 

But that sad da}', unknowing of her fate, 

She homeward turu'd her still reluctant feet ; 

And at her wheel she spun, till dai-k and late. 
The evening fell ; — the time when they should 
meet ; — 

Till the stars paled that at deep midnight burned — 

And morning dawned, and he was not returned. 

And the bright sun came up, — slie thought too soon, — 

And shed his ruddy light along the Mere ; 
And day wore on too quickly, and at noon 
She came and wept beside the waters clear. 
" How could he be so late ? " — and then hope fled ; 
And disappointment darkned into dread. 

He NEVEK came, and she with weepings sore 
Peered in the water-flags unceasingly ; 



'W 



i— D 



482 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



Through all the undulations of the shore, 

Looking for that which most she feared to see. 
And then she took home sorrow to her heart, 
And brooded over its cold, cruel smart. 

And after, desolate she sat alone 

And mourned, refusing to be comforted, 

On the gray stone, the moss-embroidered stone. 
With the great sycamore above her head ; 

Till after many days a broken oar 

Hard by her seat was drifted to the shore. 

It came, — a token of his fate, — the whole, 
The sum of her misfortune to rcA'eal ; 

As if sent up in pity to her soul. 

The tidings of her widowhood to seal ; 

And put away the pining hope forlorn. 

That made her grief more bitter to be borne. 

And slie was patient ; through the weary day 

She toiled ; though none was there her work to 
bless, 

And did not wear the sullen months away, 
Nor call on death to end her wretchedness, 

But lest the grief should overflow her breast, 

She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest. 

But, her work done, what time the evening star 
Rose over the cool water, then she came 

To the gray stone, and saw its light from far 

Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame. 

And wondered whether there might be the place 

Where the soft ripple wandered o'er his face. 

Unfortunate ! lu solitude forlorn 

She dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave, 
Till when the days grew short a child was born 



rrrr- 



:iii 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 



483 



To the dead father underneath the wave ; 
And it brought back a remnant of dehght, 
A little sunshine to its mother's sight ; 

A little wonder to her heart grown numb, 
And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen : 

She took it as from that poor father come, 
Her and the misery to stand between ; 

Her little maiden babe, who day by day 

Sucked at her breast and charmed her woes away, 

But years flew on ; the child was still the same, 
Nor human language she had learned to speak ; 

Her lips were mute, and seasons went and came, 
And brought fresh beauty to her tender cheek ; 

And all the day upon the sunny shore 

She sat and mused "beneath the sycamore. 

Strange S3'rapathy ! she watched and wearied not, 
Haply unconscious what it was she sought ; 

Her mother's tale she easily forgot, 

And if she listened no warm tears it brought; 

Though surely in the yearnings of her heart 

The unknown voyager must have, had his part. 

Unknown to her ; like all she saw unknown, 
All sights were fresh as when they first began. 

All sounds were new ; each murmur and each tone 
And cause and consequence she could not scan, 

Forgot that night brought darkness in its train. 

Nor reasoned that the day would come again. 

There is a happiness in past regret ; 

And echoes of the harshest sound are sweet. 
The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet, 

Repeated in her child, 'twas not unmeet 
That echo-like the grief a tone should take 
Painless, but ever pensive for her sake. 



^Cas 




(• 


^ 


L 





h^ 



484 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

For her dear sake, whose patieut soul was linked 
By ties so mau}' to the babe uuboru ; 

Whose hope, by slow degrees become extiuct, 
For evermore had left her child forlorn. 

Yet left no consciousness of want or woe. 

Nor wonder vague that these things should be so. 

Truly her joys were limited and few, 

But they sufBced a life to satisfy, 
That neither fret nor dim foreboding knew, 

But breuthed the air in a great harmonj^ 
With its own place and part, and was at one 
With aW it knew of earth and moon and sun. 

For all of them were worked into the dream, — 
The husky sighs of wheat-fields in it wrought ; 

All the laud-miles belonged to it ; the stream 
That fed the Mere ran througli it like a thought. 

It was a passion of peace, and loved to wait 

'Neath boughs with fair green light illuminate ; 

To wait with her alone ; always alone : 
For any that drew near she heeded not. 

Wanting them little as the lily grown 
Apart from others, in a shady plot, 

Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree. 

In her still glen to bear her company. 

Always alone : and yet, there was a child 

Who loved this child, and. from his turret towers. 

Across the lea would roam to where, in-isled 

And fenced in rapturous silence, went her hours. 

And, with slow footsteps drawn anear the place 

Where mute she sat, would ponder on her face, 

And wonder at her with a childish awe. 
And come again to look, and yet again. 

Till the sweet rippling of the Mere would draw 
His lonoino- to itself ; while in her train 



-4-5 




MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 485 

The water-hen come forth, would bring her brood 
From slumbering in the rushy solitude ; 

Or to their young would curlews call and clang 
Their homeless young that down the furrows 
creep ; 

Or the wind-hover in the blue would hang, 
Still as a rock set in the watery deep. 

Then from her presence he would break away, 

Unmarked, uugreeted yet, from cla^- to day. 

But older grown, the Mere he haunted 3'et, 

And a strange joy from its wild sweetness caught ; 

AVhilst careless sat alone maid Margaret, 

And " shut the gates" of silence on her thought. 

All through spring mornings gemmod with melted 
rime. 

All through hay-harvest and through gleaning time. 

O pleasure for itself that boyhood makes, 
O happiness to roam the sighing shore. 

Plough up with elfin craft the water-flakes, 
And track the nested rail with cautious oar ; 

Then floating lie and look witli wonder new 

Straight up in the great dome of light and blue. 

O pleasure ! yet they took him from the wold, 
The reech' Mere, and all his i^astime there. 

The place where he was born, and would grow old 
If God his life so many years should spai-e ; 

From the loved haunts of childhood and the plain 

And pasture-lands of his own broad domain. 

And he came down when wheat was in the sheaf. 
And with her fruit the apple-branch bent low, 

While 5'et in August glory hung the leaf. 
And flowerless aftermath began to grow ; 

He came fi-om his gray turrets to the shore. 

And sought the maid beneath the sycamore. 



W 



uc 



ik 



XE 



486 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



He sought her, not because her tender eyes 

"Would brighten at his coming, for he knew 
Full seldom any thought of him would rise 

In her fair breast when he had passed from view ; 
But for his own love's sake, that unbeguiled 
Drew him in spirit to the silent child. 
For boyhood in its better hour is prone 

To reverence what it hath not understood ; 
And he had thought some heavenly meaning shone 

From her clear eyes, that made their watchings 
good ; 
While a great peacefnlness of shade was shed 
Like oil of consecration on her head. 
A fishing wallet from his shoulder slung. 

With bounding foot he reached the mossy place, 
A little moment gently o'er her hung, 

Put back her hair and looked upon her face. 
Then fain from that deep dream to wake lier yet, 
He "• Margaret ! " low murmured, " Margaret I 

" Look at me once before I leave the land. 

For I am going, — going, Margaret." 
And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand. 

Laid it along his young fresh cheek, and set 
Upon his face those blue twin-deeps, her eyes. 
And moved it back from her in troubled wise. 
Because he came between her and her fate. 

The Mere. .She sighed again as one oppressed ; 
The waters, shining clear, with delicate 

Reflections wavered on her blameless breast ; 
And through the branches dropt, like flickerings fair. 
And played upon her hands and on her hair. 

And he, withdrawn a little space to see, 

Murmured in tender ruth tliat was not pain, 
'•' Farewell, I go; but sometimes think of me. 




MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 



487 



Maid Margaret ; " aud there came by again 
A whispering in the reed-beds and the sway 
Of waters : then he turned and went his way. 

And wilt thou think on liim now he is gone? 

No ; thon wilt gaze : though thy young eyes grow 
dim, 
And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan, 

Still thou wilt gaze, aud spend no thought on him ; 
There is no sweetness in his laugh for thee — 
No beauty in his fresh heart's gayety. 

But wherefore linger in deserted haunts? 

Why of the past, as if yet present, sing? 
The yellow iris on the margin flaunts. 

With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring. 
And under dappled clouds the lark afloat 
Pours all the April-tide from her sweet throat. 

But Margaret — ah ! thou art there no more, 

And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stone ; 

Thy path is lost that skirted the low shore, 
With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown ; 

Thine eye has closed forever, and thine ear 

Drinks in no more the music of the Mei'e. 

The boy shall come — shall come again in spring, 
Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share. 

And some kind offering in his hand will bring- 
To cast into thy lap, O maid most fair — 

Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest, 

Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast. 

And he shall wonder why thou art not here 
The solitude with " smiles to entertain," 

And gaze along the reaches of the Mere ; 
But he shall never see thy face again — 

Shall never see upon the reedy shore 

Maid ]Maro;aret beneath her svcamore. 



488 THE TWO MARGARETS. 



ir. 



MARGAKET IX THE XEBEC. 

["Conceruiug this iiiau (Robert Pelacoiir'*, little further is known 
than that he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the battle of 
Marston Moor, being then about twenty-seven years of age. After the 
battle of Xaseby, tindiug himself a marked man, he quitted the country, 
taking with him the child whom he had adopted ; and he made many 
% oyages between the different ports of the Mediterranean and Levant."] 

Restixg within liis teut at turn of day, 
A wailiug voice his scauty sleep beset : 

He started up — it did uot tiee away — 

'Twas uo part of his dream, but still did fret 

And pine into his heart, '• Ah me I ah me I " 

Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully. 

Then he arose, and. troubled at this thing. 

Ail wearily toward the voice he went 
Over the down-trodden bracken and the ling, 

Until it brought him to a soldier's tent. 
TThere, with the tears upon her face, he found 
A little maiden weeping on the ground ; 

And backward in the tent an aged crone 
Upbraided her full harshly more and more. 

But sunk her chiding to an undertone 

When she beheld him standing at the door. 

And calmed her voice, and dropped her lifted hand. 

And answered him with accent soft and bland. 

Xo. the young child was none of hers, she said, 
But she had found her where the ash lay white 

About a smouldering tent ; her infant head 
All shelterless, she through the dewy night 

Had slumbered on the field, — ungentle fate 

For a lone child so soft and delicate. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



489 



" And I," quoth she, " have tended her with care, 
And thought to be rewarded of her kin, 

For by her rich attire and features fair 
I know her birth is gentle : yet within 

The tent unchiimed she doth but pine and weep, 

A burden I woukl fain no longer keep." 

Still while she spoke the little creature wept, 
Till painful pity touched him for the flow 

Of all those tears, and to his heart there crept 
A yearning as of fatherhood, and lo ! 

Reaching his arms to her, " My sweet," quoth he, 

" Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me?" 

Then she left off her crying, and a look 
Of wistful wonder stole into her e^'es. 

The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook. 
She let him take her, and forgot her sighs. 

Contented in his alien arms to rest. 

And lay her baby head upon his breast. 

Ah, sure a stranger trust was never sought 

By any soldier on a battle-plain. 
He brought her to his tent, and soothed his voice, 

Rough with command ; and asked, but all in vain 
Her story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet. 
She playing, as one at home, about his feet. 

Of race, of country, or of parentage. 

Her lisping accents nothing could unfold ; — 

No questioning could win to read the page 
Of her short life ; — she left her tale untold. 

And home and kin thus early to forget. 

She only knew, — her name was — Margaret. 

Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanced 
That night that suddenly she fell asleep ; 

And he looked down on her like one entranced, 
And listened to her breathing still and deep, 




l\ 



^r^rr 



T 



49( 



THE TWO JL-iJ?GAJ?ETS. 



As if a little child, ^heu daylight closed. 
"VMth half-shnt lids had ne'er before reposed. 

Softly he laid her down from off his arm. 

With earnest care and new-born tenderness : 
Her infancy, a wonder- woi'king charm, 

Laid hold upon his love ; he stayed to bless 
The small sweet head, then went he forth that night 
And sought a nurse to tend this new delight. 

And day by day his heart she wrought upon. 

And won her way into its inmost fold — 
A heart which, but for lack of that whereon 

To fix itself, would never have been cold ; 
And. opening wide, now let her come to dwell 
"Within its strong unguarded citadel. 

She. like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs 
Of his past thoughts, and set their current fi-ee 

To talk with him of half-forgotten things — 
The pureness and the peace of infancy, 

'■ Thou also, thou." to sigh, •• wert undefiled 

(O God, the change !) once, as this little child." 

The baby-mistress of a soldier's heart. 

She had but friendlessness to stand her friend. 
And her own orphanhood to plead her part. 

When he. a wayfarer, did pause, and bend. 
And bear with him the starry blossom sweet 
Out of its jeopardy from trampling feet. 

A gleam of light upon a rainy day, 

A new-tied knot that must be severed soon. 

At sunrise once before his tent at play. 
And hurried from the battle-field at noon. 

While face to face in hostile ranks they stood. 

Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood. 




Ill 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



491 



But ere the fight, when higher rose the suu. 
And yet were distant far the rebel bands, 

She heard at intervals a booming gun. 

And she was pleased, and laughing clapped her 
hands ; 

Till he came in Avith troubled look and tone, 

Who chose lier desolate to be his own. 

And he said, " Little madam, now farewell. 
For there will be a battle fought ere night. 

God be thy shield, for He alone can tell 

Which way may fall the fortune of the fight. 

To fitter hands the care of thee pertain, 

M}' dear, if we two never meet again." 

Then he gave money shortly to her nurse, 
And charged her straitly to depart in haste, 

And leave tlie plain, whereon the deadly curse 
Of war should light with ruin, death, and waste. 

And all the ills that must its presence blight, 

E'en if proud victory should bless the right. 

" But if the rebel cause should prosper, then 
It were not good among the hills to wend ; 

But journey tlirough to Boston in the fen. 

And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send ; 

And if my life is spared, I will essa}'," 

Qnoth he, '• to join yon there as best I ma}'." 

So then he kissed the child, and went his way ; 

But many troubles rolled above his head ; 
The suu arose on many an evil day. 

And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed : 
And hope was lost, and loyal hearts were fain 
In dust to hide, — ere they two met again. 

So passed the little cliild from tiiought, from view — 
(The snowdrop blossoms, and then is not there, 






ilr 




4i»^ 



THE TWO MARGARETS, 



Forgotten till men welcome it anew) . 

lie found her in his lieavv days of eare. 
And with her dimples was again beguiled. 
As on her nurse's knee she sat and smiled. 

And he became a vovager bv sea. 

And took the child to share his wandering state ; 
Since from his native land compelled to tiee. 

And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate : 
For all was lost that might have made him pause. 
And. past a soldier's help, the roval cause. 

And thus rolled on long days, long months and 
years. 

And Margaret within the Xebec sailed : 
The lulling wind made nuisic in her ears. 

And nothing to her life's completeness failed. 
Her pastime 'twas to see the dolphins spring. 
And wonderful live rainbows glimmering. 

The gay sea-plants familiar were to her. 

As daisies to the children o'C the land ; ■ 
Red wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner 

Kaised from its bed to glisten in her hand ; 
The vessel and the sea were her life's stage — 
Her house, her garden, and her hermitage. 

Also she had a cabin of her own. 

For beauty lik: an eltin palace bright. 
"With Venice glass adoi'ued, and crystal stone. 

That trembled with a many-colored light : 
And there with two caged ringdoves slie did play. 
And feed them carefully from day to day. 

Her bed with silken curtains was enclosed, 
"White as the snowy rose of Gnelderland ; 

On Turkish pillows her young head reposed. 
And love had Gathered with a careful hand 







~r 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



493 



Fair playthings to the little maiden's side, 
From distant ports, and cities parted wide. 

She had two myrlle-plants that slie did tend, 

And think all trees were like to them that grew ; 

For things on land she did confuse and blend, 
And chiefly from the deck the land she knew, 

And in her heart she pitied more and more 

The steadfast dwellers on the changeless shore. 

Green fields and inland meadows faded out 
Of mind, or with sea-images were linked ; 

And yet she had her childish thoughts about 
The country she had left — though indistinct 

And faint as mist the mountain-head that shrouds, 

Or dim through distance as Magellan's clouds. 

And when to frame a forest scene she tried. 
The ever-present sea would yet intrude, 

And all her towns were b}' the water's side. 
It murmured in all moorland solitude, 

Where rocks and the ribbed sand would intervene, 

And waves would edge her fancied village green ; 

Because her heart was like an ocean shell, 

That holds (men say) a message from the deep ; 

And yet the land was strong, she knew its spell. 
And harbor lights could draw her in her sleep ; 

And minster chimes from piercM towers that swim, 

Were the land-angels making God a hymn. 

So she grew on, the idol of one heai-t. 

And the delight of many — and her face, 
Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart. 

Was touched with a most deep and tender grace — 
A look that never aught but nature gave, 
Artless, yet thoughtful ; innocent, yet grave. 



UJ 



jn: 



-<— 5 



M 



494 



TNE TWO JLIA'GAA'ETS. 



Strange her adornings were, aud strangely blent : 
A golden net confined her nut-brown hair ; 

Quaint were the robes tliat divers lands liad lent, 
And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care ; 

Yet did the}- well on the sea-maiden meet, 

Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet. 

The sailor folk were glad because of her, 

And deemed good fortune followed in her wake ; 

She was their guardian saint, they did aver — 
Prosperous winds were sent them for her sake ; 

And strange rough vows, strange prayers, they 
nightly made, 

While, storm or calm, she slept, in naught afraid. 

Clear were her eyes, that daughter of the sea, 
Sweet, when uplifted to her aged nurse. 

She sat. and communed what the world could l)e ; 
And rambling stories caused her to rehearse 

How Yule was kept, how maidens tossed the hay, 

And how bells rang upon a wedding day. 

But they grew brighter when the evening star 
First trembled over the still glowing wave. 

That bathed in ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar ; 
For then, reclined in rest that twilight gave. 

With him who se"'ved for father, friend, aud guide. 

She sat upon the deck at eventide. 

Then turned towards the west, tiiat on her hair 
And lier young cheek shed down its tender glow. 

He taught lier many things with earnest care 

That he thought fitting a young maid should know. 

Told of the good deeds of the worthy dead. 

And prayers devout, by faithful martyrs said. 

And many psalms he caused her to repeat 

And sing tliem, at his knees reclined the while. 




' Told of the good deeds of the worthy dead, 
And prayers devout, by faithful niartyis said." — Page 494, 



n 






MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



495 



Aud spoke with her in all things good and meet, 

And told the story of her native isle. 
Till at the end he made her tears to flow, 
Rehearsing of his royal master's woe. 

And of the stars he taught her, and their names. 
And how the chartless mariner they guide ; 

Of quivering light tbat in the zenith flames, 
Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide ; 

Then changed the theme to fairy records wild, 

Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child. 

To her the Eastern lands their strangeness spread. 
The dark-faced Arab in his long blue gown, 

The camel thrusting down a snake-like head 

To browse on thorns outside a walled white town. 

Where palmy clusters rank by rank upright 

Float as in quivering lakes of ribbed light. 

And when th2 ship sat like a broad-winged bird 
Becalmed, lo, lions answered in the night 

Their fellows, all che hollow dark was stirred 
To echo on that tremulous thunder's flight, 

Dying in weird faint moans ; — till, look I the sun 

And night, and all the things of night, were done. 

And the}^ toward the waste as morning brake. 
Turned, where, in-isled in his green watered land, 

The Lybian Zeus lay couched of old, and spake, 
Hemmed in with leagues of furrow-fac6d sand — - 

Then saw the moon (like Joseph's golden cup 

Come back) behind some ruined roof swim up. 

But blooming childhood will not always last. 
And storms will rise e'en on the tideless sea ; 

His guardian love took frigiit. she grew so fast. 
And he began to think how sad 'twould V)e 

If he should die. and pirate hordes should get 

By sword or shipwreck his fair Margaret. 



-t£j~r 



496 



T//E Tiro MARGARETS. 



It was a sudden thouglit ; but he gave way, 
For it assailed liiui with unwonted force ; 

And, with no more than one short week's deh\y. 
For Englisli shores lie shaped the vessel's course ; 

And ten years absent saw her landed now, 

With thirteen summers on her maiden brow. 

And so he journeyed with her, far inland, 

Down quiet lanes, by hedges gemmed with dew. 

Where wonders met her eye on every hand. 
And all was beautiful and strange and new — 

All, from the forest trees in stately ranks, 

To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks. 

All new — the long-drawn slope of evening shades, 
The sweet solemnities of waxing light. 

The white-haired boys, the bhishing rustic maids. 
The ruddy gleam through cottage casements l)right, 

The green of pastui-es, bloom of garden nooks. 

And endless bubbling of the water-brooks. 

So far he took them on through this green land. 
The maiden and her nurse, till journejing 

They saw at last a peaceful city stand 

On a steep mount, and heard its clear bells ring. 

High were the towers and rich with ancient state, 

In its old wall enclosed and massive gate. 

Thei'e dwelt a worthy matron whom he knew. 
To whom in time of war he gave good aid, 

Shielding her household from the plundering crew 
When neither law could l)ind nor worth persuade ; 

And to her house he brought his care and pride, 

Aweary with the way and sleepy-eyed. 

And he, the man whom she was fain to serve. 

Delayed not shortly his request to make, 
Which was, if aught of her he did deserve, 



■Al 



i-^ 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 497 



To take the maid, and rear her for his sake, 
To guard her youth, and let her breeding be 
In womanly reserve and modesty. 

And that same night into the house he brought 
The costly f I'uits of all his voyages — 

Rich Indian gems of wandering craftsmen wi'ought, 
Long ropes of pearls from Persian palaces, 

With ingots pure and coins of Venice mould, 

And silver bars and bags of Spanish gold ; 

And costly merchandise of far-off lands, 

And golden stuffs and shawls of Eastern dye, 

He gave them over to the matron's hands. 
With jewelled gauds, and t03's of ivory, 

To be her dower on whom his love was set, — 

His dearest child, fair Madam Margaret. 

Then he entreated, that if he should die, 

She would not cease her guardian mission mild. 

Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh, 
Beside the pillow of the sleeping child. 

Severed one wandering lock of wavy hair, 

Took horse that night, and left her unaware. 

And it was long before he came again — 
So long that Margaret was woman grown ; 

And oft she wished for his return in vain, 
Calling him softly in an undertone ; 

Repeating words that he had said the while. 

And striving to recall his look and smile. 

If she had known — oh, if she could have known — 
The toils, the hardships of those absent years — 

How bitter thraldom forced the unwilling groan — 
How slavery wrung out subduing tears. 

Not calmly had she passed her liours away. 

Chiding half pettishly the long delay. 



M. 



498 



77/if TWO MARGAJ^ETS. 



But she was spared. She knew no sense of harm, 
While the red flames ascended from the deck ; 

Saw not the pirate band the crew disarm. 

Mourned not the floating spars, the smoking wreck. 

She did not dream, and there was none to tell 

That fetters bound the hands she loved so well. 

Sweet Margaret — withdrawn from human view, 
She spent long hours beneath the cedar shade, 

The stately trees that in the garden grew, 
And, overtwined, a towering shelter made ; 

She mused among the flowers, and birds, and bees, 

In winding walks, and bowering canopies ; 

Or wandered slowly through the ancient rooms. 
Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams ; 

And tapestried hangings, wrought in Flemish looms 
Displayed the story of King Pharaoh's dreams ; 

And, come at noon because the well was deep, 

Beautiful Rachel leadiug down her sheep. 

At last she reached the bloom of womanhood, 

After five summers spent in growing fair ; 
Her face betokened all things dear and good. 

The light of somewhat yet to come was there 
Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, 
"When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift 

away. 
O ! we are far too happy while they last ; 

AVe have our good things first, and they cost 
naught ; 
Then the new splendor comes unfa t homed, vast, 

A costlv trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought. 
And will not wait, and cannot be possessed, 
Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast. 

And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by. 
And life is more than life ; love more than love ; 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



499 



We have not found the whole — and we must die — 

And still the unclasped glory floats above. 
The inmost and the utmost faint from sight, 
Forever secret in their veil of light. 

Be not too hasty in your flow, you rln^mes. 
For Margaret is in her garden bower ; 

Dela}- to ring, you soft cathedral chimes, 

And tell not out too soon the noontide hour ; 

For one draws nearer to your ancient town, 

On the green mount down settled like a crown. 

He journeyed on, and, as he neared the gate. 

He met with one to whom he named the maid. 
Inquiring of her welfare, and her state, 

And of the matron in whose house she stayed. 
" The maiden dwelt there yet," the townsman said ; 
" But, for the ancient lady, — she was dead." 

He further said, she was but little known. 

Although reputed to be verj' fair. 
And little seen (so much she dwelt alone) 

But with her nurse at stated morning prayer ; 
So seldom passed her sheltering garden wall. 
Or left the gate at quiet evening fall. 

Flow softly, rhymes — his hand is on the door ; 

Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming — 
" He went out rich, but he returneth poor ; " 

And strong — now something bowed with suffering ; 
And on his brow are traced long furrowed lines, 
Earned in the fight with pirate Algerines. 

Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his call ; 

Lifts up her Avithered hand in dull surprise. 
And, tottering, leads him through the pillnred liall ; 

'' What ! come at last to bless mv ladv's eyes ! 



500 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome 

maid — 
Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade." 

The noondaj' chime had ceased — she did not know 
Who watched her, wliile her ring 'loves fluttered 
near : 

While, under the green boughs, in accents low 
She sang unto herself. She did not hear 

His footsteps till she turned, then rose to meet 

Her guest with guileless blush and wonder sweet. 

But soon she knew him, came with quickened pace, 
And put her gentle hands about his neck ; 

And leaned her fair cheek to his sunburned face. 
As long ago upon the vessel's deck : 

As long ago she did in twilight deep, 

When heaving waters lulled her infant sleep. 

So then he kissed her, as men kiss their own. 
And, proudly parting her unbraided hair. 

He said : " I did not think to see thee grown 
So fair a woman," — but a touch of care 

The deep-toned voice through its caressing kept, 

And, hearing it, she turned away and wept. 

Wept, — for an impress on the face she viewed — 

The stamp of feelings she remembered not ; 

His voice was calmer now, but more subdued, 

. Not like the voice long loved and unfoi'got ! 

She felt strange sorrow and delightful pain — 

Grief for the change, joy that he came again. 

O pleasant days, that followed his return. 

That made his captive years pass out of mind ; 

If life had yet new pains for him to learn. 

Not in the maid's clear eyes he saw it shrined ; 

And three full weeks he stayed with her, content 

To find her beautiful and innocent. 



— 3 I -^ 



t 



MARGARET /AT THE XEBEC. 



501 



It was all one in his contented sight 

As though she were a child, till suddenly, 

Waked of the chimes in the dead time of the night 
He fell to thinking how the urgency 

Of Fate had dealt with him, and could but sigh 

For those best things wherein she passed him by. 

Down the long river of life how, cast adrift. 
She urged him on, still on, to sink or swim ; 

And all at once, as if a veil did lift. 

In the dead time of the night, and bare to him 

The want in his deep soul, he looked, was dumb. 

And knew himself, and knew his time was come. 

In the dead time of the night his soul did sound 
The dark sea of a trouble unforeseen, 

For that one sweet that to his life was bound 
Had turned into a want — a misery keen : 

Was born, was grown, and wounded sorely cried 

All 'twixt the midnight and the morning tide. 

He was a brave man, and he took this thing 

And cast it from him with a man's strong hand ; 

And that next morn, with no sweet altering 
Of mien, beside the maid he took his stand. 

And copied his past self till ebbing day 

Paled its deep western blush, and died away. 

And then he told her that he must depart 
Upon the morrow, with the earliest light ; 

And it displeased and pained her at the heart, 
And she went out to hide her from his sight 

Aneath the cedar trees, where dusk was deep. 

And be apart from him awhile to weep 

And to lament, till, suddenly aware 

Of steps, she started up as fain to flee, 
And met him in the moonlight pacing there, 



^EF 



502 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



Who questioned with her wh}- her tears might be, 
Till she did answer him, all red for shame, 
" Kind sir, I weep — the wanting of a name." 

" A name ! " qiioth he, and sighed. " I never knew 
Thy father's name ; but many a stalwart youth 

Would give thee his, dear child, and his love too. 
And count himself a happy man forsooth. 

Is there none here who thy kind thought hath won ? " 

But she did falter, and made answer, " None." 

Then, as in father-like and kindly mood. 

He said, " Dear daughter, it would please me well 

To see thee wed ; for know it is not good 
That a fair woman thus alone should dwell." 

She said, " I am content it should be so, 

If when you journey I may with you go." 

This when he heard, he thought, right sick at heart 
Must I withstand m^-self , and also thee ? 

Thou, also thou ! must nobly do th}' part ; 

That honor leads thee on which holds back me. 

No, thou sweet woman ; by love's great increase, 

I will reject thee for thy truer peace. 

Then said he, " Lady ! — look upon my face ; 

Consider well this scar upon my brow ; 
I have had all misfortune but disgrace ; 

I do not look for marriage blessings now. 
Be not thy gratitude deceived. I know 
Thou think'st it is thy duty — I will go ! 

" I read thy meaning, and I go from hence, 

Skilled in the reason ; though my heart be rude, 

I will not wrong thy gentle innocence, 
Nor take advantage of thy gratitude, 

But think, while yet the light these eyes shall bless, 

The more for thee — of woman's nobleness." 



^' 



Ijj 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



503 



Faultless and fair, all in the moony light, 

As one ashamed, she looked upon the ground. 

And her white raiment glistened in his sight. 
And hark ! the vesper chimes began to sound. 

Then lower yet she drooped her young, pure cheek, 

And still was she ashamed, and could not speak. 

A swarm of bells from that old tower o'erhead. 
They sent their message sifting through the bough 

Of cedars ; when they ceased his lady said, 
"• Pray you forgive me," and her lovely brows 

She lifted, standing in her moonlit place, 

And one short moment looked him in the face. 

Then straight he cried, " O sweetheart, think all one 
As no word yet were said between us twain, 

And know thou that in this I yield to none — 
I love thee, sweetheart, love thee ! " so full fain. 

While she did leave to silence all her part, 

He took the gleaming whiteness to his heart — 

The white-robed maiden with the warm white throat, 
The sweet white brow, and locks of umber flow, 

Whose murmuring voice was soft as rock-dove's note, 
Entreating him, and saying, " Do not go ! " 

" I will not, sweetheart ; nay, not now," quoth he, 

" By faith and troth, I think thou art for me ! " 

And so she won a name that eventide. 

Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bespeak, 

And she became the rough sea-captain's bride. 
Matching her dimples to his sunburnt cheek ; 

And chasing from his voice the touch of care. 

That made her weep when first she heard it there. 

One year there was, fulfilled of happiness. 

But O ! it went so fast, too fast away. 
Then came that trouble which full oft doth bless — 



504 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



It was the evening of a sultrv day. 
There was no wind the thread-hung flowers to stir. 
Or float abroad the fihny gossamer. 

Toward the trees his steps the mariner bent, 
Pacing the grass}^ walks with restless feet : 

And he recalled, and pondered as he went. 
All her most duteous love and converse sweet, 

Till summer darkness settled deep and dim, 

And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. 

The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint — 
Thick leaves shut out the starlight overhead ; 

While he told over, as by strong constraint 
Drawn on, her childish life on shipboard led. 

And beauteous youth, since first low kneeling there, 

With folded hands she lisped her evening prayer. 

Then he remembered how, beneath the shade, 
She wooed him to her with her lovely words. 

While flowers were closing, leaves in moonlight 
played. 
And in dark nooks withdrew the silent birds. 

So pondered he that night in twilight dim. 

While dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. 

The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint — 
When, in the darkness waiting, he saw one 

To whom he said — " How fareth my sweet suint?" 
Who answered — ' ' She hath borne to you a son ; " 

Then, turning, left him, — and the father said, 

" God rain down blessings on his welcome head ! " 

But, Margaret ! — she never saw the child. 

Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wails ; 
But to the last, with ocean dreams beguiled, 

Murmured of troubled seas and swelling sails — 
Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen, 
And distant hills in sight, all calm and green. . . . 



rt 



M- 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 



505 



Woe and alas ! — the times of sorrow come, 

And make us doubt if we were ever glad ! 
So utterly that inner voice is dumb, 

Whose music through our happy days we had ! 
So, at the touch of grief, without our will, 
The sweet voice di*ops from us, and all is still. 
Woe and alas ! for the sea-captain's wife — 

That Margaret who in the Xebec played — 
She spent upon his knee her baby life ; / 

Her slumbering head upon his breast she laid. 
How shall he learn alone his years to pass ? 
How in the empty house ? — woe and alas ! 
She died, and in the aisle, the minster aisle. 

They made her grave ; and there, with fond intent, 
Her husband raised, his sorrow to beguile, 

A very fair and stately monument : 
Her tomb (the careless vergers show it yet) , 
The mariner's wife, his love, his Margaret. 
A woman's figure, with the eyelids closed. 

The quiet head declined in slumber sweet ; 
Upon an anchor one fair hand reposed. 

And a long ensign folded at her feet, 
And carved upon the bordering of her vest 
The motto of her house — " ^t gibillj |i£st." 
There is an ancient window richly fraught 

And fretted with all hues most rich, most bright, 
And in its upper tracery en wrought 

An olive-branch and dove wide-winged and white. 
An emblem meet for her, the tender dove, 
Her heavenly peace, her duteous earthly love. 
Amid heraldic shields and banners set, 

In twisted knots and wildl3--tangled bands, 
Crimson and green, and gold and violet, 

Fall softly on the snowy sculptured hands ; 
And, when the sunshine comes, full sweetly rest 
The dove and olive-branch upon her breast. 




5o6 



THE SHEPHERD LADY. 



THE SHEPHERD LADY. 



Who pipes upon the long green hill, 

Where meadow grass is deep? 
The white lamb bleats but followeth on — 

Follow the clean white sheep. 
The dear white lady in yon high tower, 

She hearkeueth in her sleep. 

All in long grass the piper stands, 

Goodly and grave is he ; 
Outside the tower, at dawn of day, 

The notes of his pipe ring free. 
A thought from his heart doth reach to hers 

" Come down, O lady ! to me." 

She lifts her head, she dons her gown : 

Ah ! the lady is fair ; 
She ties the girdle on her waist. 

And binds her flaxen hair, 
And down she stealeth, down and down, 

Down the turret stair. 

Behold him I With the flock he wons 

Along yon grassy lea. 
"My shepherd lord, my shepherd love, 

What wilt thou, then, with me? 
My heart is gone out of mv breast, 

And followeth on to thee." 



" The white lambs feed in tender grass 

With them and thee to bide. 
How good it were," she saith a* noon ; 





All in long grass the piper stands." — Page 506. 



ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 



507 



'' Albeit the meads are wide. 
Oh ! w.ell is me," she saith when day 
Draws on to eventide. 

Hark ! harlv ! the shepherd's voice. Oh, sweet ! 

Her tears drop down like rain. 
" Take now this crook, my chosen, my fere, 

And tend the flock full fain ; 
Feed them, O lady, and lose not one. 

Till I shall come again." 

Right soft her speech : " My will is thine, 

And my reward thy grace ! " 
Gone are his footsteps over the hill. 

Withdrawn his goodly face ; 
The mournful dusk begins to gather, 

The daylight wanes apace. 

in. 

On sunny slopes, ah ! long the lady 

Feedeth her flock at noon ; 
She leads it down to drink at eve 

Where the small rivulets croon. 
All night her locks are wet with dew 

Her eyes outwatch the moon. 

Beyond the hills her voice is heard. 

She sings when life doth wane : 
" My longing heart is full of love. 

Nor shall my watch be vain. 
My shepherd lord, I see him not, 

But he will come aeain." 



ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 

And can this be my own world ? 

'Tis all gold and snow, 
Save where the scarlet waves are hurled 



k 



50S FAILURE. 



Down 3011 gulf below. 
'Tis thy world, 'tis my world, 

City, mead, and shore. 
For he that hath his own world 

Hath many worlds more. 



LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD. 

In the night she told a story, 

In the night and all Jiight through, 
While the moon was in her glory. 

And the branches dropped with dew. 
'Twas my life she told, and round it 

Rose the years as from a deep ; 
In the world's great heart she found it. 

Cradled like a child asleep. 
In the night I saw her weaving 

By the misty moonbeam cold, 
All the weft her shuttle cleaving 

With a sacred thread of gold. 
Ah ! she wept me tears of sorrow, 

Lulling tears so mystic sweet ; 
Then she wove my last to-morrow. 

And her web lay at my feet. 
Of m}' life she made the story : 

I must weep — so soon 'twas told ! 
But your name did lend it glory, 

And your love its thread of gold ! 



FAILURE. 

We are much bound to them that do succeed ; 
But, in a more pathetic sense, ai'e bound 
To such as fail. They all our loss expound ; 

They comfort us for work that will not speed. 

And life — itself a failure. 



GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE. 509 

Ay, his deed, 
Sweetest in story, who the dusk profouud 
Of Hades flooded with entrancing sound, 
Music's own tears, w^as faihu'e. Doth it read 
Therefore the worse? Ah, no! so much to dare. 

He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne. — 
So much to do ; impetuous even there, 

He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan — 
He wins ; but few for that his deed recall : 
Its power is in the look which costs him all. 



GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE. 
One morning, oh ! so early, my beloved, my belovM, 
All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they 

would cease ; 
'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, " Hear the story, 
hear the story ! " 

And the lark sang, " Give us glory ! " 
And the dove said, " Give us peace ! " 

Then I listened, oh ! so early, my beloved, my be- 
loved. 
To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my 

dear, the dove ; 
"When the nightingale came after, "• Give us fame to 
sweeten duty ! " 

When the wren sang, " Give us beaut}^ ! " 
She made answer, '■'• Give us love ! " 

Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, 

my belov&d ; [the year's increase. 

Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon 

And my prayer goes up, " Oh, give us, crowned in 

youth with marriage glory. 

Give for all our hfe's dear story, 
Give us love, and give us peace ! " 



_rn^ 






510 



THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY. 



THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY. 

When I sit on market-days amid the comers and 
the goers, 
Oh ! full oft I have a vision of the da3^s without 
alloy, 
And a ship comes up the river with a jolly gang of 
towers, 
And a " pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yov ! heave, 
hoy ! " 

There is busy talk around me, all about mine ears it 
hnmmeth, 
But the wooden wharves I look on, and a dancing, 
heaving buoy. 
For 'tis tidetime in the river, and she cometh — oh, 
she cometh ! 
With a " pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yov ! heave, 
hoy!" 

Then I hear the water washing, never golden waves 
were brighter, 
And I hear the capstan creaking — 'tis a sound 
that cannot cloy. 
Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schooner, 
sloop or lighter, 
With a " pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, voy ! heave, 
hoy ! " 

" Will ye step aboard, my dearest? for the high seas 
lie before us." 
So I sailed adowu the river in those days with- 
out alloy ; 
We are launched ! But when, I wonder, shall a 
sweeter sound float o'er us 
Than yon "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yov! 
heave, hov ! " 



"F 



]jj 



ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN. 



5" 



THE LEAVES OF LIGX ALOES. 

Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes, 
O honey-dew ! drop from the tree. 

Float up though your clear river shallows, 
White lilies, beloved of the bee. 

Let the people, O Queen ! say, and bless thee, 
Her bounty drops soft as the dew. 

And spotless in honor confess thee. 
As lilies are spotless in hue. 

On the roof stands 3"on white stork awaking, 
His feathers flush rosy the wliile. 

For, lo! from the blushing east breaking. 
The sun sheds the bloom of his smile. 

Let them l)oast of thy word, " It is certain ; 

We doubt it no more," let them say, 
" Than to-morrow that night's dusky curtain 

Shall roll back its folds for the day." 



ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN. 

On the rocks by Aberdeen, 
Where the whislin' wave had been 
As I wandered and at e'en 

Was eerie ; 

Tliere I saw thee sailing west, 

And I ran with joy oi)prest — 

Ay, and took out all my best, 

My dearie. 

Then I busked mysel' wi' speed. 
And the neighbors cried " What need? 
'Tis a lass in any weed 
Aye bonn}- ! 



,4, 



512 



FEATHERS AND MOSS. 



Now my heart, iny heart is sair : 
What's the good, tliough I be fair, 
For thou' It never see me mair, 
Man Johnnie ! 



FEATHERS AND MOSS. 

The marten flew to the finch's nest, 

Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay : 

" The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast : 
Low in the broom is thy mate to-day." 

" Liest thou low, love? low in the broom? 

Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay. 
Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom." 

She beateth her wings, and awa}", away. 

" Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told 
(Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay) ! 

Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold. 
O mournful morrow ! O dark to-day ! " 

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest. 
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay. 

Mine is the trouble that rent her breast. 
And home is silent, and love is clay. 



Sweet is childhood — childhood's over, 

Kiss and part. 
Sweet is youth ; but youth's a rover — 

So's my heart. 
Sweet is rest ; but b}- all showing 

Toil is nigh. 
We must go. Alas ! the going, 

Sav " good-bve." 



A WOOING SOJVG. 



513 



THE GYPSY'S SELLING SOXG. 
My good man — he's an old, old man, 

And my good man got a fall, 
To buy me a bargain so fast he ran 
When he heard the gypsies call : 
" Buy, buy brushes, 
Baskets wrought o' rushes. 
Buy them, buy them, take them, try them, 
Buy, dames all." 

My old man, he has money and land. 

And a young, young wife am I. 
Let him put the penny in m^- white hand 
When he hears the gypsies cry : 
"Buy, buy laces, 
Veils to screen your faces. 
Buy them, buy them, take and try them. 
Buy, maids, bu}-." 



A WOOING SONG. 
My fair lady's a dear, dear lady — 

1 walked by her side to woo. 
In a garden alley, so sweet and shady, 
She answered, " I love not you, 
John, John Brady," 
Quoth my dear lady, 
" Pray now, pray now, go your way now. 
Do, John, do." 

Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady. 

For I passed another day ; 
Wliile making her moan, she sat all alone, 
And thus, and thus did she say : 
" John, John Brady," 
Quoth my dear lady, 
" Do now, do now, once more woo now, 
Pra}-, John, pray ! " 



~w 



^xi, MASTER, QUOTH THE AULD HOUND. 

SLEEP AXD TIME. 

" Wake, baillie, wake ! the crafts are out ; 

Wake ! " said the knight, " be quick ! 
For high street, bye street, over the town 

Tliey fight with poker and stick." 
Said tlie squire, •' A fight so fell was ne'er 

In all thy bailliewick." 
What said the old clock iu the tower? 
'• Tick, tick, tick!" 

" Wake, daughter, wake ! the hour draws on ; 

Wake," quotli the dame, "be quick ! 
The meats are set, the guests are coming, 

The fiddler waxing his stick." 
She said, " The bridegroom waiting and waiting 

To see thy face is sick." 
What said the new clock ni her bower? 
''Tick, tick, tick! " 



MASTER, QUOTH THE AULD HOUND. 

"Master," quoth the auld hound, 

" Where will ye go? " 
"Over moss, over muir, 

To court my new jo." 
" Master, though the night be merk, 

I'se follow through the snow. 

"Court her, master, court her. 

So shall ye do weel ; 
But and ben she'll guide the house, 

I'se get milk and meal, 
Ye'se get lilting while she sits 

With her rock and reel." 



:jn: 



AT ONE AGAIN. 



515 



" For oh ! she has a sweet tongue, 
And een that look down, 

A gold girdle for her waist, 
And a purple gown. 

She has a good word forbye 
Fra a' folk in the town." 



LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. 

It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, 
All the world and we too, and Heaven be our stay. 
Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride ! 
All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. 

What's the world, my lass, m}' love ! — what can it do ? 
I am thine, and thou art mine ; life is sweet and new. 
If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by, 
For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try. 

Like a laverock m the lift, sing, O bonny bride ! 
It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. 
Take a kiss from me thy man ; now the song begins • 
' ' All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins. " 

When the darker days come, and no sun will shine. 
Thou shalt di-y my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine. 
It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away. 
Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day. 



AT ONE AGAIN. 

I. NOONDAY. 



Two angry men — in heat they sever, 

And one goes home by a harvest field : — 

" Hope's nought," quoth he, " and vain endeavor ; 
" I said and say it, I wiii not yield ! 



w 



9 

ci6 AJ' OXL' AuAJxW 



'' As for this wix>ng, no art can luemi it. 

Tlie bond is shiver'd tliat held ns twain ; 
Old fiiouds wo be, but law uuist end it. 

Whether for lo$s or whether for gain. 

'• Yon stream is small — full slow its wending ; 

But w inning is sweet, but right is tine ; 
And shoal of trout, or willow v bending — 

Though Law be costlv — I'll prove tlietn uune. 

'• His strawberry eow clipped loose her tether. 
And trod the best of mv barlev down ; 

His little lasses at play together 

riuek'd the poppies my boys had grown. 

"* What then — Why naught I ^he laok'd of reason 
And tfie(/ — my little ones match them well : — 

But this — Nay all things have their season. 
And 'tis my reason to curb and quell." 



II, SUNSET. 

So saith he. when noontide fervors tlout him. 

So thinks, when the "West is amber and red, 
"When he smells the hop-vines sweet about him. 

And the clouds are rosy overhead. 

"WTiile slender and tall the hop-poles going 
Straight to the "West in their leafy lines. 

Portion it out into chambers, glowing. 
And bask in red day as the sun declines. 

Between the leaves in his latticed arbor 
He sees the sky, as they tlutter and turn, 

"While moor'd like lK)ats in a golden harlK)r 
The Ueets of feathery cloudlets burn. 



^4 



Ffi: 



a 



AT ONE AGAIN. 



sn 



Withdrawn in sliadow, he thinketh over 

Harsh tlioughts, the fruit-laden trees among, 

Till pheasants call their young to cover, 
And cushats coo them a nursery song. 

And flocks of ducks forsake their sedges, 
Wending liome to the wide barn-door, 

And loaded wains between the hedges 
Slowly creep to his threshing floor — 

Slowl}- creep. And his tired senses, 
Float him over the magic stream, 

To a world where Fancy recompenses 

Vengeful thoughts, with a troubled dream ! 



III. TUK DUKAM. 

What's this? a wood? — What's that? one calleth, 
Calleth and cryeth in mortal dread — 

He hears men strive — then somewhat falleth I — 
" Help rne, neighbor — I'm hard bestead." 

The dream is strong — the voice he knoweth — 
But when he would run, his feet are fast, 

And death lies beyond, and no man goeth 
To help, and he says the time is past. 

His feet are held, and he shakes all over, — 

Nay — they are free — he has found the place — 

Green boughs are gather'd — what is't they cover? — 
" I pray you, look on the dead man's face ; 

You that stand by," he saith, and cowers — 

" Man, or Angel, to guard the dead 
With shadowy spear, and a brow that lowers, 

And wing-points reared in the gloom o'erhead. — 



^^ 



5iS 



AT ONE AGAIN. 



I dare not look. He wronged me never. 

Men say we differ'd ; they speak amiss : 
This man and I were neighbors ever — 

I would have ventured my life for his. 

But fast my feet were — fast with tangles — 
Aye ! words — but they were not sharp, I trow, 

Though parish feuds and vestry wrangles — 
O pitiful sight — I see thee now ! — 

If we fell out, 'twas but foul weather, 
After long shining ! O bitter cup, — 
What — dead ? — why, man, we play'd together — 
Art dead — ere a friend can make it up ? " 

IV. THE WAKING. 

Over his head the chafer hurameth, 

Under his feet shut daisies bend : 
Waken, man ! the enemy cometh, 

Thy neighbor, counted so long a friend. 

He cannot waken — and firm, and steady, 
The enemy comes with lowering brow ; 

He looks for war, his heart is ready. 

His thoughts are bitter — he will not bow. 

He fronts the seat, — the dream is flinging 
A spell that his footsteps ma}' not break, — 

But one in the garden of hops is singing — 
The dreamer hears it, and starts awake. 

V. A SONG. 

Walking apart, she thinks none listen ; 

And now she carols, and now she stops ; 
And the evening star begins to glisten 

Atween the lines of blossoming hops. 



MEii 



h. 



AT ONE AGAIN. 



519 



Sweetest Merc^', your mother taught you 
All uses and cares that to maids belong ; 

Apt scholar to read and to sew she thought you — 
She did not teach you that tender song — 

" The lad}' sang in her charmed bower, 
Sheltered and safe under roses blown — 

' Storm cannot touch wie, hail, nor shoiver. 
Where all alone I sit, all alone. 

My bower! The fair Fay twined it round me; 

Care nor trouble can pierce it through; 
But once a sigh from the warm world foxind vie 

Between two leaves that were bent ivith deio. 

And day to night, and night to morroiv, 

Though soft as slumber the long hows tvore 

I look for my dower of love, of sorroio — 
Is there no more — no more — 710 more?' 

Give her the sun-sweet light, and duly 
To walk in shadow, nor chide her part ; 

Give her the rose, and truly, truly — 

To wear its thorn with a patient heart — 

Misty as dreams the moonbeam lyeth 

Chequered and faint on her charmed floor ; 

The lady singeth, the lady sigheth — 

Is there no more — no more — no more ! " 



LOVERS. 



A CRASH of boughs ! ■ — one through them breaking ! 

Mercy is startled, and fain would fly. 
But e'en as she turns, her steps o'ertaking, 

He pleads with her — " Mercy, it is but I ! " 



520 AT ONE AGAIN. 

" Mercy ! " he touches her hand nnbitlden — 
" The air is bahTi}-, I pray you stay — 

Mercy?" Her downcast eyes are hidden, 
And never a word she has to say. 

Till closer drawn, her prison'd flnp;ers 

He takes to his lips with a 3'earniug strong ; 

And she murmurs low, that late she lingers, 
Her mother will want her, and think her long. 

" Good mother is she, then honor duly 

The lightest wish in her heart that stirs ; 
But there is a bond yet dearer truly. 
And there is a love that passeth hers. 

Mercy, Mercy ! " Her heart attendeth — 

Love's birthday blush on her brow lies sweet ; 

She turns her face when his own he bendeth, 
And the lips of the youth and the maiden meet. 



VII. FATHERS. 

Move through the bowering hops, O lovers, — 
Wander down to the golden AV^est, — 

But two stand mute in the shade that covers 
Your love and youth from their souls opprest. 

A little shame on their spirits stealing, — 
A little pride that is loth to sue, — 

A little struggle with soften'd feeling, — 
And a world of fatherly care for you. 

One says : " To this same running water. 
May be, Neighbor, your claim is best." 

And one — " Your son has kissed my daughter, 
Let the matters between us — rest." 



NOTES. 



" The Dreams that Came True." 

Page 199. 

This story I first wrote in prose, and it was published some years 
ago. 

"AStobt of Doom." 

Page 271. 

The name of the patriarch's wife is intended to be pronounced 
Nigh-loi-ya. 

Of the three sons of Noah — Shem, Ham, and Japhet — I have called 
Japhet the youngest (because he is always named last), and have 
supposed that, in the genealogies where he is called " Japhet the 
elder," he may have received the epithet because by that time there 
were younger Japhets 

Page 324. 

The quivering butterflies in companies, 
That slowly crept adowu the sandy marge. 
Like liiring crocus beds. 

This beautiful comparison is taken from " The Naturalist on the 
River Amazon." " Vast numbers of orange-colored butterflies con- 
gregated on the moist sands. They assembled in densely-packed 
masses, sometimes two or three yards in circumference, their wings 
all held in an upright position, so that the sands looked as though 
variegated with beds of crocuses." 

" Gladys and her Island." 
Page 366. 

The vvoman is Imagination; she is brooding over what she brought 
forth. 

The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of His- 
tory. 

The girl is Fancy. 

" "WiNSTANLET." 

Page 402. 

This ballad was intended to be one of a set, and was read to the 
children in the National Schools at Sherborne, Dorsetshire, in order to 
discover whether, if the actions of a hero were simply and plainly 
narrated, English children would like to learn the verses, recording 
them by heart, as their forefathers did. 



s 



■"j''^:; '■■:': :^^'!^^y::S/MMM0^ 



